


The Deep Reaches of the Night

by Colorado



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anger, Angst, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Murder, Murder Mystery, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-05
Updated: 2017-10-09
Packaged: 2018-02-24 04:25:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 41,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2568140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Colorado/pseuds/Colorado
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While in the middle of a drug-induced haze, Sherlock witnesses a murder, but in the clear light of day, he isn't sure what he really saw. When he's accused of committing the crime, Sherlock struggles to get sober long enough to clear his name and repair the relationships he has destroyed before the ones he loves become the real killer's next targets.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. No copyright infringement intended.  
> 2\. Set six months after "Overkill."  
> 3\. Inspired by Rear Window.  
> 4\. My Mary Morstan is not the same character seen on S3 of BBC Sherlock.

_Prologue_

It was a lovely shade of green, like the first grass of spring blended with absinthe in a crystal bottle. John Watson remembered how it brought out the golden flecks in her soulful brown eyes. He had wanted to compliment her on the dress in the hopes of seeing one of her rare smiles, but that’s the moment when everything had gone so terribly wrong.

Now he would never have the chance.

He could barely see the green anymore, the blood was gushing so fast. Too fast. Warm and sticky, it soaked through the delicate fabric and dripped onto the upholstery. No matter how quickly he applied pressure to one wound, another would spurt. It was as if her abdomen had been aerated.

Sweat beaded John’s brow as he worked to keep her alive. His frontline experience in Afghanistan had schooled him in containing his emotions, and he was good at it. Hell, he had taken out a serial killer standing in another building without so much as blinking. Nerves of steel. But as he looked into Molly Hooper’s alabaster face, the enormity of what had happened—to Sherlock, to her, to all of them—over the last six months sucker-punched him. He had no words, just his heart pounding, his body trembling.

“Jesus, Mary, drive faster!” he shouted.

Curling his hand over her forehead, John braced Molly against him as his wife took the next corner hard. As soon as the car had righted itself, he placed two fingers on Molly’s carotid. His heart sank.

“You’re going to be fine, Molly, _please_.”

She roused a little then, moaning in pain.

“That’s it, stay with me, Molly,” he whispered into her ear. “You did such a good job tonight. You were so brave.”

Her head lolled to the side, then jerked back suddenly, hitting him hard on the chin. Her legs shot out at an awkward angle, and she began convulsing.

“No, no, no, come on. Shhh, shhh. Don’t do this, don’t do this,” he chanted, struggling to hold her and keep her from bleeding out.

“John?” Mary called from the front seat. He could tell she was crying. “What’s happening?”

His eyes blurred as frothy pink foam bubbled at the corner of Molly’s mouth. It couldn’t end like this, her dying in his care. She was too important to him and to Mary. And Sherlock? If he did come back to them—and John wasn’t kidding himself about the odds of that actually happening—Molly’s death would kill him.

_No. This won’t happen. Not on my watch._

John gritted his teeth. He wouldn’t lose her. And by God, he wouldn’t lose Sherlock either.

“Tell me!” Mary pleaded.

John’s resolve hardened.

“Just get us there.”


	2. Memories

I’ll remember this moment forever.

_Sherlock frowned. While he didn’t often have illogical thoughts, he abhorred them, especially ones that came unbidden and served no purpose. It didn’t happen often, but when it did, it unsettled his senses. Shaking his head slightly, he turned his attention back to Molly._

_“It’s snowing!”_

_Happiness enveloped her as she threw her arms up to the sky. A stray shaft of sunlight glinted off the long braid that ran down her back as she lifted her face to the white canopy. “It’s Christmas morning, and it’s snowing! Isn’t it perfect?”_

_He wanted to explain that it was unsound thinking to claim perfection could be found in snow flurries on one particular December morning, but the sight of her made him hold his tongue. Lacey flakes dusted her lashes as she extended mittened hands to him._

_“Join me.”_

_~s~s~s~s~s~_

Everything around Sherlock Holmes was permanently out of focus, an understood and accepted side effect of the cool rush he had just pushed into his vein. Double vision, sometimes triple, had become his new normal, but when he closed his eyes, the memory of Molly Hooper was painfully sharp. He could see the smattering of freckles on her flushed cheeks and the stray fibers of her fraying wool scarf as clearly as if she stood before him.

_“Join me.”_

Her voice, her smile, her unconditional love for him—a captured image etched in glass that brought him comfort and unbearable pain. Sherlock groaned, willing the drugs to take effect faster.

“Don’t go,” he mumbled as the wintery scene melted away and the blurry form of Wiggins took shape.

“Shezza? You say something?” The tall man had folded himself in half to be eyelevel with the consulting detective as he lay on the couch.

“What are you doing here?” Sherlock pushed himself into a sitting position.

“Your door was open.”

Sherlockly keenly noticed the bulge in the younger man’s coat pocket. “Is that . . .?”

“No,” Wiggins snapped. “I’m not bringing you nothing like that no more. Your landlady said never to darken her door if I had it with me.” He added in a hushed tone, “She scares me.”

“She’s one to talk. Mrs. Hudson used to run a cartel!” Sherlock shouted as loudly as he could, but he didn’t expect her to answer. She hadn’t spoken to him in weeks.

Wiggins stood and headed for the kitchen as if he owned the place. “Besides, I don’t want to see Dr. Molly upset no more. And John said he’d break my arm for real if I ever brought you anything again.”

“A lot of use you are,” Sherlock grumbled, slumping down into the cushions again. He listened as Wiggins rummaged through the cabinets. “Then why are you here?”

“Brought you something—just not what you think. Got anything to eat? Holy mike, what is that smell? When did you last go to the shops?”

“I don’t go out, remember?” Sherlock airily gestured in the direction of his bad leg.

“You do so go out. You go to that flophouse where we met. Seen you there just the other day.” Apparently giving up on the idea of food, Wiggins dropped ungracefully into John’s old chair, sending a cloud of dust into the air. “Shezza, you know what I observe?”

“There’s no telling.”

“You’re on an eight-percent solution today.”

Sherlock ignored him. “Did you run afoul of some of your customers, Billy?”

Wiggins touched the purple bruise that stretched from his cheekbone to his eyebrow. “Nah, new dealers moving into our area. Guess they want more territory. It’s getting dangerous, so I’m getting out of it. I’m done.”

“No, you aren’t,” Sherlock predicted, closing his eyes. Immediately the image of Molly popped up on the giant screen inside his mind. It was too sharp, too painful.

_Join me._

He forced his eyes open. “So what is it?”

“What is what?” Wiggins furrowed his brow.

Sherlock struggled to make his thoughts become words. “You said you brought me something. What is it?”

“This.” Wiggins tossed a newspaper that hit him squarely in the chest. “St. Bart’s is getting a lot of money, and Dr. Molly is the reason why.”

~s~s~s~s~s~

Mary Watson’s alarmed cry rose above the din of well-mannered cocktail party conversation. Dropping his highball on the nearest server’s tray, John Watson rushed toward the sound of his new wife’s voice, his forceful bark of “excuse me” parting the crowd.

Brushing past an older woman, he stumbled upon his bride of four months on his right and a disheveled man in a dirty white shirt on his left. Glancing over Mary’s shoulder, John spied Molly Hooper crouched over another man splayed out on the floor. Mary had positioned herself in front of them. Only an hour earlier she had said how excited she was to wear the dress he had bought her on their Paris honeymoon, but John could tell she was ready to pounce as if she were in her Taekwondo uniform.

John protectively stepped in front of his wife and faced the assailant.

“Leave. Now.” The doctor’s authoritative tone was deceptively calm.

The man sneered. “Or what? What will you do? What?”

Although he stood a head shorter, John had the element of surprise on his side. In a split second, he twisted the man’s arm behind him and was giving him the bum’s rush out of the room, Mary at his heels. The doctor hustled him down a short flight of stairs and through the revolving front door. With a slight push, John propelled him forward.

“I don’t want to see you here again!”

Breathless, Mary stood at John’s side as they watched the man stalk down the busy sidewalk without giving them a backward glance.

A flustered Molly Hooper was helping a man John recognized as Evan Kincaid to his feet as the Watsons reentered the boardroom.

“Mr. Kincaid, I am so sorry,” Molly stammered.

A short man with thin, pale goatee, Kincaid fumbled to put back on his rimless glasses. “I want that man arrested!”

Near tears, Molly threw John a beseeching glance.

“Mr. Kincaid, is it? I’m John Watson—we met before the presentation?” John plastered a genial smile on his face. “May I be of assistance?”

Looking him up and down, Kincaid slid his jaw side to side gingerly. “Thank you, I’m all right.”

“That’s right, Evan, no harm done,” said an older gentleman who approached with polished black walking cane. “Forgive me for eavesdropping, Dr. Hooper.”

“Hello, Mr. Fitzsimmons. This is Dr. John Watson and his wife, Mary Morstan.” Molly’s fake cheerful tone wasn’t convincing. “John, Mary—this is A. J. Fitzsimmons, St. Bart’s development director.”

“Where are the police?” Kincaid demanded in such a high-pitched whine, John had a hard time taking him seriously.

“Evan, can’t you see you’re upsetting Dr. Hooper?” Fitzsimmons chided him.

Molly flushed. “Again, I am so sorry Mr. Kincaid.”

“Don’t worry, Dr. Hooper. If one of my shipmates didn't end up out cold on the floor when we were on leave, it wasn’t considered a good party.” Fitzsimmons laughed jovially. “What say you, Dr. Watson? You have the look of a military man.”

John nodded absently, his focus on Molly. Her chestnut brown hair, which had been loosely pinned up for the event, now tumbled unevenly over her shoulders.

“Were you in Iraq, Dr. Watson? Afghanistan?” the older man continued, unawares. “I served in the Falklands. _HMS Sheffield_.”

“That was a bad business,” Mary said politely.

“A bum hip is my souvenir, but I survived. You always need to look on the bright side,” he said. “Now why don’t we go get a drink, Evan?”

“Yeah. OK.” The shorter man shifted uncomfortably as Fitzsimmons pointed toward the open bar. As soon as they were out of earshot, Molly whirled to face John.

“Where is he?”

“Don’t worry.” Mary rubbed her friend’s arm. “He’s gone. We watched him until we couldn’t see him any more.”

Her dark blue suit slightly askew, Molly slumped like a balloon with the air let out of it. “I can’t do this anymore.”

John traded a worried glance with his wife. Molly had been through so much. They all had.

“Molly, this is your day. This whole party is to thank you for the hard work you completed . . . in trying circumstances,” Mary said. “Let’s get back to it.”

“That’s right.” John placed his hands gently on her shoulders. “You’ve achieved a lot, and we are proud of you.”

He hadn’t expected her to smile. She didn’t do that much anymore. Instead, she tossed her head back, tears glistening in her eyes.

“Of course. You’re right. There’s no need for the party to stop. He’s gone now.” Looking longingly toward the door, Molly added, “Sherlock is gone.”

~s~s~s~s~s~

Mycroft spoke first.

“Did you ascertain why my brother felt compelled to coldcock this man?" 

John shook his head. “I didn’t see it happen, but Mary did. All she could come up with is Kincaid had his hand on Molly’s elbow and was leaning in to speak to her.”

“So, my brother crashes a reception honoring Dr. Hooper, then devolves into a Neanderthal? ‘Don’t touch my woman’?” Mycroft’s attempt at an ironic smile fell short.

“Something like that.” John absently stirred his coffee. “Mr. Kincaid—the man Sherlock punched—had just presented the ceremonial check from his foundation.”

Mycroft let a small sigh escape his lips. “I had rather hoped Sherlock would have learned his lesson after the scene he made at your wedding.”

The pair sat in a booth at a nondescript café near John’s office. It was unseasonably warm for late May, and the waitress fanned herself rhythmically with a takeaway menu. It was the day after the disastrous reception, and Mycroft had texted him to meet. How he had learned what had happened, John didn’t know. He could only assume whatever surveillance he had arranged for his younger brother had reported that John tossed his best friend out of the foundation offices.

“When did you see him last?” John asked.

“At that ridiculous intervention you held.” Mycroft sniffed.

“At least I tried.” John bristled. “As far as I can tell, you haven’t done anything.” 

Mycroft’s eyebrows raised a fraction. “You forget, doctor, I’ve been down this road before, although I had hoped things would be different this time because of Dr. Hooper.” 

“When he fired the first physical therapist you hired, I chalked it up to Sherlock just being an arse. He was so difficult after he came home from hospital,” John remembered sadly.

“His catching pneumonia hadn’t helped matters,” Mycroft said. 

John watched the waitress finally put down the menu and pour a glass of water, which she quickly drank. “After he let the fourth one go, I found out she had caught him taking extra pain pills.”

“I know all of this, doctor.” Mycroft impatiently signaled for the check.

 John continued in his memories as if he hadn’t heard the elder Holmes brother. “At first he avoided me. When I did finally catch him in that flophouse, he denied he was using again. Then he rationalized his behavior, justified it even, because of his leg pain. He’s lying to himself about the gravity and the absolute absurdity of his addiction.”

“He’s an addict. That means he lies,” Mycroft said. “You’ve witnessed a few minor slip-ups in the past, but this time he has fully succumbed.”

The two men sat in silence until John spoke again. “Are your parents sticking to their bottom lines?”

Mycroft paused. “Both of my parents have a soft spot for him, especially my mother; however, she can’t abide stupidity on any level. My father can’t abide anyone who causes my mother pain. So, yes, they will stick to their bottom lines.” 

“What about you?” John held Mycroft’s steely stare. “Will you stick to yours?”

“I will do whatever it takes, even if that means cutting him out of my life forever.” The flash of pain behind the stiffly proper man’s eyes made John feel sorry for him—until he made his next comment. “We all have to present a united front. Is Dr. Hooper really keeping her promise to not speak to him?”

“She didn’t tell Sherlock about the reception, if that’s what you’re implying,” John retorted. “He must have learned her research is the reason St. Bart’s received that grant. It wouldn’t take a consulting detective to deduce there would be some kind of reception to acknowledge her. He found out where and when and showed up uninvited.”

Mycroft slid out of the booth, draping his unnecessary umbrella over his arm.

“Undoubtedly. These are trying times, but we must wait until Sherlock decides he wants to get help.”

Lost in a fog of memories, John remained sitting long after Mycroft had left, stirring his now-cold coffee.


	3. Regrets

He needed a hit.

Sherlock rushed down the stairs of the nearest Tube station, out of breath and in pain. He had used most of his money on the cab fare to the Jilbert Foundation, but he had enough left for a one-way train trip to make a much-needed purchase. Jamming his hands into his coat pockets, he paced near the back wall, trying to ignore his throbbing leg. The train that was due in five minutes would connect with one that stopped close to his flophouse.

He could have texted his dealer to meet him closer to Baker Street, but he had an overpowering need to get far away from the heart of London. A raging headache that had hovered at the edges of his thoughts all day finally had descended. If this had happened a year ago Mrs. Hudson would have scolded him about not eating (when had he eaten last?). John would've made some tea. Molly would have soothed him and rubbed his temples.

_"Join me." Molly spun in the snowflakes._

Squeezing his eyes shut couldn't erase the image of her glaring at him today with so much anger it bordered on disgust. He always knew she would end up hating him someday. He just couldn't bear to see her hate him. It had been stupid of him to go to the reception. If there was one thing he couldn't stand more than mawkish sentiment, it was emotional outbursts. He had failed on both accounts. He had only seen Molly a few times over the past two months and that was from a distance when he watched her arrive at and leave from St. Bart's. He would've been satisfied with a brief glimpse of her today if that impish little man hadn't put his hands on her.

He had recognized the type at once: loud and full of himself but ultimately weak willed and profoundly stupid. Sherlock saw the shorter man covertly look at Molly's chest when he leaned in to hear her better. The man's grubby hand was on her dimpled elbow, his lips so close he could've kissed the soft, pink shell of her ear.

"Stop it!" Sherlock said aloud, drawing the attention of other people waiting for the train. Lowering his head, he continued to walk back and forth.

Molly might naively think this man was well meaning and interested in her as a person, but Sherlock knew better. Admittedly, punching the man in the face may not have been his best idea, but it certainly had felt good.

But oh how her eyes had burned. She had told him at that stupid intervention John arranged that she didn't want to see him again until he went to treatment. If Sherlock's memory served him right, he had told her it would be his pleasure to oblige her. He had said many other horrible things to all of them. Lies, of course. He had gotten quite good at telling lies. Sherlock normally didn't make time for regret; it was a useless emotion that served no purpose, but the ache in his chest caught him by surprise. He sighed in relief as the train finally pulled in.

~s~s~s~s~s~

_**Two months earlier** _

Sherlock defeated his enemies by staying three steps ahead of them. He knew what they thought before they did, how they would react before they even knew he was coming. As he entered his flat, he quickly surveyed the ragtag group of opponents gathered there and calculated how he could get rid of them quickly.

Mary brooded on the couch looking profoundly sad; she would not be swayed by anything he had to say. Mrs. Hudson sniffled quietly next to her. Lestrade sat next to Anderson at the kitchen table, both men earnest and worried. Lestrade was mulish about drug use—there was no point in even speaking to him. Anderson, well, he wasn't worth considering.

"The first casualty of addiction, like that of war, is the truth."

Poised at the far window, Mycroft stared at the traffic on Baker Street as if he could will something more interesting to happen. Sherlock scowled. He had been to this dance with his brother too many times before.

Sherlock's glance flitted to the two people who mattered the most: John, perched on the edge of his regular chair like a gargoyle, had anger seeping out of his very pores. At least John hadn't insulted his intelligence by trying to surprise him with an intervention. The only reason Sherlock had agreed to attend was Mrs. Hudson's threat to turn him out.

He then faced their strongest weapon. Standing ramrod straight in front of the hearth, Molly stoically faced him. "Sherlock, we're here because we love you. You are sick. You need help to beat this thing."

He wavered momentarily then noticed the anxiety flickering behind her eyes. Her eyes had always been his second language.

Sherlock smirked.

"You're particularly hyperbolic today, brother." He crossed the room, purposefully reaching around Molly to snatch a cigarette off the mantle. He didn't meet her stare.

"Will you listen to what we have to say?" Mary pleaded. "You're the smartest man I've ever met—"

"Did you hear that, John? You didn't even make the cut."

"—you have to know drugs aren't the answer."

"It's a necessary evil at the moment," Sherlock said nonchalantly, sitting across from John. "As soon as my leg is better and I am able to work again, I won't need it. Until then, it is useful. It keeps my brain stimulated."

"Unbelievable." The doctor leaned in, scanning Sherlock's appearance. "You are high right now!"

"You lie to yourself everyday by telling yourself drugs are useful." Mary stared at her hands.

"Oh really? You're an expert?" Sherlock struggled to work the lighter.

"Well, if she isn't I am." Lestrade's voice boomed across the room. "I thought I'd seen you at your lowest, but you've hit bottom, mate. You've got to go to rehab."

"Is this the part where you read your letters to me?" Sherlock sneered. "Under ordinary circumstances, drugs are of no use to me, but I need the mental stimulation. You know I am different from ordinary people."

"Your circumstances are such that the ordinary rules of civilized behavior don't apply to you?" Mycroft didn't bother to turn around.

"Why can't you understand this?" Sherlock took a deep inhale, blowing the smoke in his brother's direction. "I'll try using smaller words. As soon as my leg is better—"

"You'll what? Quit?" John made a disgusted noise. "You won't even go to physical therapy, so how is your leg supposed to get better?"

"Sherlock." Molly's voice quivered. "You are an addict, and if you don't go to rehab, you will face consequences. I will have nothing to do with you until you get clean. I won't talk to you. I won't see you."

"I'd be most happy to oblige you!" he snapped. Molly stepped back as if he had struck her. "Must you harp on this? I'm not harming anyone!"

"Really? What about everyone in this room?" Lestrade interjected.

"You lie to yourself before you lie to us," added Anderson.

Sherlock pulled his coat closer around him and sank lower into his chair. "Leave me alone."

"What's the matter? Don't you have a snappy come back to that?" Mycroft's temper flared as he swung around to face his younger brother. "Your superior intellect is obviously muddled!"

~s~s~s~s~s~

"Why is your hair like that?"

Sherlock stared balefully into a pair of fearless blue eyes. The four-year-old had spent the majority of the Tube ride swaying back and forth to a song only she could hear, pausing now and then to look over to where he sat.

"Your hair is like . . .." The child waved her hands above her head. Her red curls bounced as she tried to slide off the seat, but she was held firmly in place by her mother's swift hand.

The girl giggled. "You look like my Gonk Troll."

Finally hearing what her daughter was saying, the mother looked up from a stack of papers. She opened her mouth no doubt to apologize but froze under Sherlock's cold stare. She pulled the girl closer.

"Maddie, we don't talk to homeless people," she scolded, eyeing Sherlock.

"But Mummy!"

"Put your coat back on, we're getting off next, there's a good girl."

"Cancel the doctor appointment," Sherlock interrupted.

"Wh-Wh-What?" The woman gaped at him like a fish.

"She doesn't have ADD."

"How do you know?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "The next stop is the closest one to Great Ormond Street Hospital for children. You have looked at your watch five times since you boarded. You clearly have an appointment you want to be on time to. You are reading literature on Ritalin. The child has a blue coating on her lips and tongue and her fingers are stained pink and are sticky, all from some confection you've provided to placate her instead of actually trying to parent her. Cancel the doctor appointment and give her some fruit and veg next time."

When the train came to a stop, the mother fled, pulling Maddie behind her by the arm.

Sherlock chuckled. His superior intellect was just fine.

~s~s~s~s~s~

"Oh Sherlock." Mrs. Hudson wept into a handkerchief.

Tired of their relentless nagging, Sherlock was weary. He just wanted them to leave. "I can control it."

"Yeah, right," Anderson scoffed.

Molly knelt at his feet. "If you really love and care about me, why do you keep doing what you know hurts me?"

His resolve wavered as he finally looked into her sweet face. "I know I've hurt you, Molly. It won't happen again."

"But it does happen, Sherlock, again and again. Each time you promise, and each time you break that promise." She took his hands in hers and kissed them.

"This time is different."

"I love you and I don't want to lose you. Please go to rehab," she cried.

He couldn't abide her tears. "You know how I feel about you."

"I do, Sherlock." A deep sadness filled her. "But you love drugs more than you love me."

Stung, he pulled his hands away so quickly she lost her balance and fell to the side. How dare she doubt him?

"Shut up," he said viciously. "You don't know anything."

"Don't." John launched to his feet, his fist drawn back. "Don't speak to her that way."

Sherlock quickly reached to help Molly up, but she was already on her feet. Sulking back in his chair, he stared vacantly at the ceiling. "Why don't you all just leave?"

"Please, Sherlock," Molly tried again.

"Get out of here, Molly. Can't you see I don't need or want you? Or are you still blinded by loooove?" he sneered. "You're pathetic."

"Sherlock Holmes!" Mrs. Hudson was standing now, her motherly tears replaced with outrage.

But he didn't stop. He went in for the kill looking directly at Molly.

"You're the reason all of this happened to me. Your stupidity and carelessness led to Wilson kidnapping me. And if he hadn't kidnapped me, I never would have broken my leg. Loving you made me weak and I regret it more than anything else in my life."

Molly fled in tears with Mary and Mrs. Hudson following after, calling her name. He didn't remember what happened after that.

~s~s~s~s~s~

He was startled by the hollowed-out reflection looking back at him from the opposite window. The window had to be dirty—how else could he be so distorted? Sherlock slid further into his coat.

Several stops later, he limped off the train and waited for the small crowd to disperse before making his way up the stairs. He walked slowly, more so after the exertion of rushing away from John and Mary. He could get around all right, but not without pain and he still had several blocks to walk. His felt his leg muscles spasm, a pain that couldn't be ignored or willed away easily. He reached in his pocket and popped a pill without thinking.

Sherlock had no doubt that the mind was all-powerful. It could control the carnal nature—appetites, desires, weariness. All he had to do was will his body to do what his mind wanted. Of course, the body had to be kept running with fuel and rest, but he knew when to take those breaks and how long he could go without them. The body was merely transport. But even he couldn't think his way out of the aftereffects of severe hypothermia or the fever that had wracked his body in the subsequent pneumonia. As helpless as a newborn babe, he could only lie in bed and let Molly patiently minister to him. In his weakened state, the pain of his severely broken leg hit him full force. The medication they had him on only dulled the pain. It never left him.

Finally home at Baker Street, he had no time to rest before the first physical therapist Mycroft had hired appeared. She was a silly, vapid woman who fluttered about and spent a great deal of time visiting with Mrs. Hudson. The next PT, a man named Vincent, was no nonsense, but the exercises only left Sherlock in more pain. He fired Vincent the next day.

Of course, his mind still worked perfectly and he solved cases that John read to him from emails. But the real cases, the ones that challenged and invigorated him, the ones that were worthy of his intellect, required him to investigate in the field. His leg would have none of that. That is when he decided to take a little extra pain medicine.

Sherlock shuffled down the darkened sidewalk to an alley that led to a row of flophouses. His dealer met him at the corner. After making the transaction, the detective practically ran into his usual house. He slid to the litter-strewn floor of an empty back bedroom on the second floor and leaned his head against a windowsill. He closed his eyes. The relief flooding through him was instantaneous, erasing memories and regrets.

~s~s~s~s~s~

He awoke with a start. Immediately on the alert, Sherlock surveyed the darkened room for an attacker, but no one was there. Rubbing his eyes with balled up fists like a child, he stood and peered out the window to the alley below. He could make out a few shadowy figures. It must have been their arguing that had roused him. With a sigh, he began to lower himself back onto the filthy floor.

The men below were shouting now, their raised voices drifting up to him. That's when he heard the scream, guttural and piercing. Instincts kicking in, Sherlock was on his feet and stumbling down the stairs. Pushing through the front door, he rushed around the side of the building.

The alley was dark, dusty, confined. Pale moonlight glinting of shards of broken glass didn't offer much illumination, but Sherlock could make out two dark blurs rushing off in the distance, one directly in front of the other. Crouching over the man on the ground, he felt for a pulse.

"Help me." The man pawed at Sherlock's coat.

Ripping open the man's tan overcoat, Sherlock heard the tinny sound of something hitting the pavement. That's when he saw two stab wounds brilliant red against the light-colored dress shirt. The one in the stomach bled profusely; the one centered above the heart would obviously kill the man.

"Tell me quickly who did this to you," Sherlock demanded groggily.

The man coughed up blood, his voice faint. "Beast."

"Beast?" Sherlock echoed, looking directly at the man's face for the first time. A memory floated in the back of his brain.

The man's breath rattled and then he was gone.

Sitting back on his heels, Sherlock reached for the object he had heard fall on the ground. It was a long-handled knife.

"Oh my God, what have you done?" Sherlock turned to see a woman, clearly an addict herself, stumbling forward. "You done killed him!"


	4. Plans

Lestrade absently fingered the tarnished crucifix. His grandmother had always worn it on a long gold chain. One of his earliest memories was of climbing on her lap and twisting the necklace in his chubby fist. Sometimes he wondered if the little man on the cross was sad. The thought had made him sad, but his grandmother told him Jesus loved everyone, and that had cheered him up.

When Sherlock was in the hospital suffering the aftereffects of hypothermia, a broken leg, and pneumonia, Lestrade had gone looking for it and found it in a box of bits and bobs shoved in the back of his bedroom closet. He recalled how, as a boy, he had thought his grandmother's neck was too frail to support such a heavy object. The truth was, the crucifix was small and light.

_Funny how time can change your perspective_. Lestrade tossed the crucifix in his top desk drawer among the paperclips. The way the world was and with crime on the rise, he decided to keep it close at hand.

"Greg? Got a minute?" DI Lisa Adams rapped sharply on his open door.

"Sure thing, have a seat." With a boyish smile, Lestrade gestured to the chair across from him. "What's up?"

He and Adams had risen in the ranks together. She was a go-getter who had neatly achieved a balance between being a bull-nosed cop and someone who could negotiate bureau politics, something he hadn't always been successful at. Over the years they occasionally met up to compare notes on the Met, talk about their superiors, and review cases. There may have been some harmless flirting involved, more on his side than hers, but nothing ever came of it. Still, he could appreciate how her dark pencil skirt and Wedgewood blue blouse highlighted all of her curves.

"Sherlock Holmes has worked with you on a few cases, right?" It was apparent she was all business today, so he responded in kind.

"That's right."

"Then you should know I arrested him for murder last night."

"Murder?" Lestrade felt the air leave his lungs as if he had gotten punched in the breadbasket. "What the bloody hell do you mean Sherlock is under arrest for murder?"

The attractive redhead sent a file folder scooting across the desk with a swoosh. ""I know you still like to look at cases on paper."

Snatching his reading glasses from his shirt pocket, Lestrade quickly scanned the notes. "Give me the lowdown."

"Pretty open-and-shut. He was seen over the body holding a knife. The victim's blood was on his hands and shirt. CID retrieved some fibers from under the vic's fingernails and odds are they are from Holmes' coat. He doesn't deny there will be physical evidence." She frowned. "In fact, he pointed it all out to us."

"And what does he say happened? I'm assuming he didn't confess."

"He heard a scuffle in the alley next to the flophouse he was crashing in and discovered the victim. Says he saw two people fleeing the scene and that he got blood on himself handling the victim."

Lestrade sighed in relief. "So the evidence is circumstantial and supports what he says happened. There's more than a reasonable doubt."

"I know he's a . . . friend." Adams threw him a sympathetic glance. "But Holmes was as high as a kite when I questioned him, so his memory is suspect at best. And he had a motive."

That wasn't what Lestrade had expected to hear. "A motive?"

"At first it looked like a drug deal gone bad or that Holmes had robbed the man for drug money"—she held up her hand to stop her friend's pending interruption—"but we've identified the vic as Evan Kincaid, director of the Jilbert Foundation. Holmes had a run in with him at a party earlier and punched the guy flat on his ass."

"What for?"

"Apparently Kincaid was pawing Holmes' girlfriend. I talked to one of the waiters who worked the party this morning."

Lestrade quickly calculated that the party in question had to be the reception for Molly that John had mentioned to him a week ago. He would get all the details from the doctor later. Right now he had to focus on the facts.

"All right, I know why Sherlock was in that part of town. Do you know why Kincaid was there?"

Adams smirked. "I'm leaving that bit of detective work up to you. I can tell you there weren't any recent texts or calls on Kincaid's mobile arranging a meeting. Holmes claims he had been in the flophouse next to the alley, which at this point I can't prove or disprove. It would take CID about a year to go through the filth in that place." She chuckled. "I thought about putting Anderson on it."

"Remind me not to cross you." In spite of the seriousness of the situation, Lestrade cracked a smile.

"I've made all the arrangements. The case is yours." Adams stood and walked to the door. "Actually, I think I'm dodging a bullet. Seems like a can of worms to me with his family connections and all, but you can buy me a pint sometime. See you later, Greg."

He sat silently for several minutes after she had left. Sherlock Holmes had come into his life an addict, but Lestrade had recognized the younger man's amazing ability to observe and deduce. He offered Sherlock a deal: If he cleaned up his act, Lestrade would feed him interesting cases to solve. Other cops at the Met had questioned his decision; several spoke derisively of the consulting detective, but Lestrade knew jealousy when he heard it. He, on the other hand, didn't resent Sherlock. No, he was proud of him. Lestrade had once told his wife he didn't want to become like that Salieri, that "idiot composer who was threatened by Mozart in that movie," but she wasn't listening.

Lestrade's shoulders slumped at the memory. The rescuer. That's what his now-ex wife called him.

"You always need to rush out and save someone," she had bitterly said as she packed her suitcase to leave him. "Except you don't see the one person standing in front of you."

Perhaps she was right. When he was old and daft, he could talk to a psychiatrist about it, but for now, Lestrade formulated a few plans.

_Jesus loves everyone. Even Sherlock Holmes._

He grabbed his mobile and tapped his foot impatiently waiting for the person on the other end to pick up. "I need to speak with Mycroft Holmes."

~s~s~s~s~s~

"Thank God you're here," Sherlock snapped. "Get me out of here."

Filled with sadness and anger, Lestrade took in Sherlock's rough state. Compared to the dapper man he had known only months earlier, it was a night and day difference. Rail thin, Sherlock's dirty white shirt ballooned away from him. But it wasn't just his appearance that disappointed Lestrade. The renowned consulting detective—"the foremost champion of law," as John Watson once called him—sat handcuffed across the table from him in the interview room like the ordinary junkie he was.

"I don't know what you're talking about, mate." Lestrade folded his arms across his chest. "I was just assigned this murder."

Sherlock guffawed. "You can't possibly think I did it. Even you can't be so stupid—"

Leaning forward dangerously, Lestrade didn't miss a beat. "Tread very lightly here, Sherlock. You don't have many friends right now. Or should I say, _any_ friends right now. You look like hell, by the way."

Scowling, Sherlock stared deliberately at the opposite wall. "I'm sure I do, so if you'll release me I'll be on my way."

"That's not going to happen. I've reviewed the evidence against you. It may be circumstantial, but it makes the case against you. I can't pretend it doesn't."

"Fine. I will call Aaron Selmy of the firm Edwards, Johnson, and Selmy. He has served my family for years. I will be out within the day." Sherlock jutted out his chin.

"Yeah, about that." Lestrade scratched his scruffy five o'clock shadow. "Mycroft may have washed his hands of you, but he still cares in his own way. He said to tell you that the family wouldn't be paying any of your legal fees."

"What?" The consulting detective sputtered. "Fine. At my initial hearing, I'll request legal aid. And after I get bail—"

"Your brother has a lot of power, did you know that?" Lestrade interrupted, eyeing Sherlock carefully. He was displaying all the signs that he needed another fix. "When you do have your hearing, you won't get bail. Mycroft has seen to that already. And while you're the queen's guest, you will go through a medically supervised detox."

For the first time Sherlock looked apprehensive. "You can't do that."

"I can."

"But that's—"

"Illegal?" Lestrade raised his eyebrows. "I have known Mycroft to do one or two illegal things for you in the past."

"This is preposterous!" Sherlock's panic was rising. "You can't do this to me."

"Wait a minute! The case against you wasn't something we created. So while we have this chance, we're going to do whatever it takes to save your life," Lestrade thundered.

"You think it is saving my life to throw me in prison?" Sherlock countered, his eyes shifting side to side.

Lestrade remained calm. "While you are getting clean and hopefully regaining your sanity, I am going to throw everything I have at this investigation. If what you say is true, I will find the proof to bear that out. In the meantime, I have to ask you: Did you kill Kincaid?"

He braced for Sherlock's vitriol, but none came. Instead the genius sleuth lowered his chin to his chest. Whether it was the result of coming off the high, the drop in his adrenaline, or sheer exhaustion, Sherlock's bravado had disappeared.

"No, I didn't." His voice was barely audible. "I may deserve to have lost everyone's good opinion, but I am not so far gone that I've become a murderer."

Swallowing hard didn't make the lump in his throat go away. Lestrade pushed his chair back.

"It may seem like I'm throwing you in prison, but I'm not heartless, yeah? I have a plan." He walked to the door. "I knew he wouldn't answer if he saw your number pop up, so I called him."

Lestrade stepped aside to let John Watson enter the room.

~s~s~s~s~s~

Lestrade's hasty message had sent John sprinting out the door. Sherlock, arrested for murder? The thought left him sick to his stomach. He would love to think there was no way that was possible, but he couldn't lie to himself like that. As much as he hated to admit it, John didn't know this Sherlock.

His heart racing, he had thought long and hard about what he would say to his best friend— _can I call him my best friend still?—_ on the cab ride over to the Met. He didn't know which Sherlock would be in the interrogation room—the stoned addict who had caused a scene at his wedding? The arrogant, frustrating man he had met so many years earlier? The belligerent idiot who had been so cruel to Molly at the intervention? A wellspring of conflicting emotions, John tried to keep his face stoic when he brushed by Greg and entered the room.

"Let me be clear, Sherlock: I'm not here for you."

"Then why are you here?" Sherlock asked tonelessly.

"For myself. I want to know that I've done everything I can to save you. Do you understand?" When he didn't get an answer, he repeated, "Do you understand, Sherlock?"

Unable to meet his eyes, Sherlock nodded. "I do."

"I'm also here only because Greg assures me you'll detox in jail whether you like it or not. My hope is you'll take this time to choose to be sober. Do you understand?"

"Yes."

"Good." John took a deep breath and nodded to himself. Slowly he walked to the table and sat down. "Murder? Really, Sherlock?"

The detective looked into the doctor's eyes. "I didn't do it."

Unable to discern whether he was lying or not, John said, "Tell me what happened."

"After I . . . encountered you last, I texted my dealer and he met me near that flophouse—"

"I remember the one."

"—and I got high. I don't know how much time passed, but I heard fighting in the alleyway below. I heard a man scream. I saw two people running away. I couldn't tell if they were men or women. The victim was dying. He said, 'Beast.' I picked up the knife. And then I was discovered." Sherlock shrugged. "That's it. That's the whole story."

"What did he mean by 'beast'?" John asked.

"I don't know."

"What else did you observe?"

Looking embarrassed, Sherlock gave his head a little shake.

John pressed on. "Did you know it was Evan Kincaid?"

"He looked familiar, but I didn't know it was the same man from Molly's . . ." His voice trailed off. "I haven't tried to call her, you know? I've stayed away. I only have observed her from a distance."

"Until the party," John reminded him.

"This all comes down to Kincaid—why was he there? Who wanted him dead?" Sherlock looked desperate. "John, you have to be my eyes and ears. You know my methods. Investigate this crime."

John blinked a few times. "I've already talked to Greg, who has spoken to Mycroft and to Anderson. We have a plan and we all will do everything we can to clear you."

Relieved, Sherlock slumped back in his chair. "I promise this time I will—"

"No. Don't do that. No promises," John ordered sternly. "I won't believe them anyway." Then, softer, "Get clean, Sherlock. Come back to us. We miss you. I miss you."

Sherlock's eyes burned. "I'll try."

 


	5. Tears

Early in his career A. J. Fitzsimmons had learned the importance of maintaining an attentive, caring facial expression, no matter how dull the conversation. It never ceased to surprise him how people would open up their feelings—and their wallets—to him if only he looked as if he were listening. He would lean back in his chair slightly, furrow his brow, and keep his eyes half closed, coming across wise and concerned instead of what he really felt—bored and impatient.

It didn’t hurt that he had a naturally approachable manner. One rich, fluttery woman told him he looked as if he could be the younger brother of American actor Robert Young of _Marcus Welby_ fame.

“You’re so trustworthy,” she said.

The secret was nodding thoughtfully every 30 seconds or so and keeping one ear attuned to the conversation in order to add an intelligent comment, correct a mistake that could come back to bite him in the arse, or respond to a direct question. To some people pretending to listen was rude, but it helped A. J. achieve his goals. And if his goals were good—then rudeness didn’t matter.

As Carl Slater continued reviewing the minutia of the financial report that those seated at the long mahogany table could easily read for themselves, Fitzsimmons gave the president of St. Bart’s another approving nod.

_Likes to hear himself talk too_ much, he thought. _A poor leader._

To achieve important goals, a good leader needed to listen more and speak less. Fitzsimmons had learned that in the navy. He had done just that when he explained the details of the Jilbert Foundation grant and answered board members’ questions. This grant was a feather in his cap—the biggest grant the hospital had received in the last five years.

A good leader also engaged with his staff. Slater had done the right thing in inviting Dr. Hooper to the meeting so she could receive proper credit for her research, but he should have let her leave after she presented a summary of her original paper. Having her sit through the financials was cruel and unusual torture.

A. J. stole a glance at her across the table. She wore her brown hair pulled attractively to one side in a ponytail, which let her absently pull on a long strand and twist it around her finger. She was a pretty girl, obviously smart and from what he could tell, sweet. She was the type of girl he would have like to have seen his son bring home. He could picture her raising a family, being a concerned and caring wife like his beloved Willa.

He had never met Molly until her research fit the requirements for the grant he was working on. She had been easy to work with, very accommodating. She did insist on accuracy regarding anything to do with her work, but she wasn’t after any glory. At the foundation center reception and in this meeting she looked very uncomfortable in receiving attention. In fact, she seemed preoccupied and rather sad during all of their encounters. And then there was that odd business at the reception. He never would have imagined someone of Dr. Hooper’s quality to be associated with a drug addict.

A J. nodded again at Slater, who for some reason was still talking.

A good leader did whatever was required to achieve his goals and advance the common good, including getting out of the way of his own ego. A. J. believed this wholeheartedly. He didn't fool himself into thinking he was that important. He knew where his talents lay—in working a room and courting donors. He wouldn’t discover a cure for cancer, but his efforts would help fund research at St. Bart’s for years. That helped him sleep well at night.

He let his gaze drift. The half dozen men and women stared at the financial report either on paper or on their tablets; a few sycophants watched Slater with rapt attention. His gaze fixed on Molly Hooper. The poor girl was nearly dozing off. A. J. was suddenly jolted to full awareness—Slater had said Molly’s name and all eyes were on her. It was obvious from her slight gasp that she hadn’t learned the secret of keeping one ear tuned into the conversation.

Molly sat up straight. “I . . . um . . .that is to say—”

A good leader knew how to save the day.

A. J. jumped in quickly. “I’m sure we all would like to hear more about Dr. Hooper’s future research, but I’m afraid that will have to wait until another time.” He tapped his watch meaningfully. “Several board members have flights to catch, Carl, and we’re already running late.”

Slater acquiesced. “Let’s bring this meeting to a close.”

After taking his time to say his good-byes, A. J. spied Molly hanging back, waiting for him. After everyone had left, she approached. “Thank you. I should have been paying attention.”

“To tell you the truth, I wasn’t listening to him either.” He gave her a conspiratorial wink.

As they walked toward the elevator, he noticed the grim set of her mouth. “I hope I’m not being too forward, Dr. Hooper, but would you mind me asking, is anything the matter?”

She hesitated as if she were trying to reduce a complicated situation to a few simple words. “Someone very dear to me is going through a hard time right now.”

He paused. “The young man at the reception?”

“Yes.” Her large brown eyes filled quickly.

“He did seem rather . . . troubled.”

“He’s a very good man who has lost his way right now.” A lone tear streaked down her cheek. She blushed to her roots. “And now I’m crying. I’m afraid I’ve cemented your opinion of me as the most unprofessional doctor in this hospital.”

“Nonsense.” He pressed the button for the first floor. “I don’t think you’re unprofessional. I find your candor refreshing.”

She looked as if she wanted to smile. “You’re too kind.”

“I mean it,” A. J. said. “I would very much like to have tea with you today, if you aren’t busy.”

A strange look flitted across Molly’s face. “I don’t . . . that is, I’m flattered but . . . you see, I’m attached . . . or at least I was and . . .”

A. J. felt a little sad. Many women found him very attractive. Still, he hadn’t thought through how his invitation might come across to a young woman like Molly.

“Dr. Hooper, I would hope we could be friends. Would that be all right? Think of me as an uncle, nothing more.”

She sheepishly nodded. “Please call me Molly.”

“I take it the young man at the reception is your boyfriend? He seemed very concerned in defending your honor.”

“Yes,” she said quietly.

“Well, you can tell him I’m glad he punched Evan Kincaid. I’ve wanted to do so many times!” He stopped laughing abruptly. “What’s the matter, Molly?”

She had gone ghastly pale. “You haven’t heard?”

“Heard what?”

“Evan Kincaid was murdered. He is in the morgue right now. Dr. Pritchard did his autopsy.”

A. J. sucked in a sharp breath. The elevator felt as if it were in free fall. “Evan is dead? I just saw him at your reception!”

“He was murdered that night. Are you all right?”

“I’m fine, I’m just shocked.” A. J. steadied himself as the doors quietly slid open. “Do the police know who did it?”

“I—I’m sorry, Mr. Fitzsimmons. I have to go.” Molly fled the elevator as if she were being pursued.

A. J. leaned heavily on his cane and walked out slowly. _Evan Kincaid is dead?_

~s~s~s~s~s~

The third stall from the left was Molly’s favorite; she often referred to it as her second office. Located in the corner, it felt roomier than the others and was easier to hide in and not be seen or heard. She knew every mark and scratch on the door and the way the latch stuck and you had to jiggle it just so to make it release. Over the last six months, she had spent a lot of time crying in that stall. Luckily her lab assistant, Lori Koetsier, understood the situation and never questioned it when Molly would run to the loo unexpectedly.

Molly’s eyes felt hot and unexpectedly dry, considering she was sobbing. Molly was surprised she hadn’t run dry of tears ages ago. She didn’t think she had anything left in her to cry about Sherlock.

_A. J. is going to think that I am mad_ , she thought and began hiccoughing. She had noticed him furtively sneaking glances at her during the board meeting. And then his invitation to have tea—it was all too much. She reminded herself that he had said to think of him as an uncle. _I can do that._

Pulling a long portion of toilet paper, she blew her nose hard. There had been no getting out of the board meeting, even though it had fallen on her day off. She had been in shock for most of it, having heard from John right before she came in to work. She had just enjoyed a long lie-in and was heading to the shower when John called. He didn’t beat around the bush—they had long past that point concerning Sherlock. He simply told her about the murder, Sherlock’s arrest, and Lestrade’s plan to prove him innocent.

“How can this be happening?” she had asked, bewildered. With no time to process the fact that Sherlock was under arrest—for murder—she barely heard what John explained next, only that he ended with, “I won’t ask you to help.”

“Of course I’ll help,” she had said automatically.

“Good, good. We’ll need to see the autopsy report. You didn't do it, did you?”

“No, this is my day off.”

“Greg can get it, of course. I called Kincaid’s secretary and she agreed to talk to me. I told her I am helping Scotland Yard, which is true I suppose.”

“Yes.”

“I’m off to see her now. I’m meeting up with Greg and Anderson after. Will you join us?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll text you where and when. Molly, are you sure you’re all right?”

“Yes.”

She wasn’t, of course. She didn’t think she would ever be all right again.

“Of course I’ll help,” she repeated in the washroom. “I’ll help the man who has abandoned me, scoffs at my love for him, and hurts me. I’ll help the man who took our relationship and threw it away when it didn’t fit in with his drug use. I’ll help the man who embarrassed me at John and Mary’s wedding and at my reception— _my_ reception—simply because he is a selfish prick. And why? Why?

“Because,” she concluded bitterly, “I still believe in Sherlock Holmes.”

And she burst into tears once again; out of despair or anger she couldn’t tell.


	6. Investigation

The city felt heavy. It was as if the diesel fumes that filled the air were anchored to the earth by the waves of heat that rolled off the pavement. The temperature had leveled off by the late afternoon, but even in the air-conditioned cab, John still felt sweat trickle from the nape of his neck to pool at his lower back. In spite of the heat, he would have to wear the light jacket he brought along to cover up the wet spot on his cotton shirt.

Meeting with Mycroft for coffee felt as if it had been a hundred years ago. John knew the next few weeks would feel even longer.

_You have to be my eyes and ears. You know my methods._

Give him action. Give him a gun and a battlefield. Give him a field hospital and a rush of adrenaline. That is where he felt the most at home. But to observe and deduce? Not his “area,” as Sherlock loved to point out.

“How exactly am I supposed to think like Sherlock?” John had asked Mary as the cab snaked its way through traffic on the way to the Jilbert Foundation.

“You can’t.” Sarah Louise Mary Morstan could be very direct. “No one but Sherlock Holmes can notice everything and understood the implications of all of it.”

“Yeah, well, he’s in jail and I’m detecting in his stead, so I could use some constructive advice. I’ll be there in one minute.”

He knew the pause that followed was Mary working things out. “Why don’t you record the conversations you have and take pictures of everything? Then, when Sherlock is well enough to see you again, you can show him.”

“You are brilliant.” He double-checked the address on the building, got out of the cab, and slipped a few notes to the cabbie.

“I know.” John could hear her lovely smile over the mobile. “Now go and be a detective. Sherlock needs you.”

“No pressure,” John muttered, looking at his watch. Five minutes early.

He signed in at the reception desk and was given a clip-on visitor’s badge. He slipped on his jacket before climbing the short staircase to the second floor. A few doors down the oak-paneled hallway from where Molly’s reception was held, he paused at the entrance of the anteroom to Evan Kincaid’s office. The woman at the secretary’s desk acknowledged him with a terse smile and without missing a beat, nodded to one of the green side chairs. Turning her attention back to her phone call, she sighed in exasperation over piles of papers.

“He told you to what?” she barked. “Why wasn’t I informed? I have to have access to all the drives on the server.”

She shook head, making the glasses precariously balanced on her mop of sandy curls tremble. Her black sweater set and patterned skirt were the picture of respectability; the scowl on her face was worthy of Mary after she learned he had eaten the last Crunchie bar.

John fiddled with his guest badge as he surveyed the room. A large painting of the HMS _Victory_ hung over two filing cabinets the same color as the paneling. On the opposite wall hung framed maritime signal flags. He wouldn’t have been surprised to find a wooden ship wheel in Kincaid’s office. He took out his camera phone and snapped a couple of photos. The woman at the desk gave him a quizzical look and continued typing whatever the person on the other end of the line told her.

“It isn’t working.” Her patience clearly was wearing thin. “Ruby and Mr. Kincaid were the only ones who could get on, but now I need to. Will you figure it out and get back with me, please?”

She hung up the phone with more force than necessary. Inhaling deeply, she turned to John. “I apologize for the delay. It’s been frantic around here.”

“I can imagine,” he said, switching his mobile to record and placing it in his breast pocket.

She forced a smile. “John Watson, right? You’re with Scotland Yard?”

“Well, actually—”

The staccato ring of the phone saved him from having to explain his connection with the Met. In a way, he was working with them—with DI Lestrade, at least—so John decided to let her think what she wanted. After a few minutes of conversation, she transferred the caller, then pushed another button, which he assumed was Do Not Disturb.

“Please have a seat, Mr. Watson.” She again gestured for him to sit. “I’m Bethel Henstridge, the operations director here.”

John pulled the chair closer to the desk. “Thank you for seeing me so late in the day. I know you must be . . . wait, you aren’t Mr. Kincaid’s assistant?”

She shook her head again, this time sending her glasses falling to the desk. “I wear many hats here, but that’s not one of them.”

“All right. May I speak to . . .?”

“Ruby Danley.” Ms. Henstridge pushed her glasses up her long nose. “Unfortunately, you’ll have to track her down. She has flown the coop.”

John raised his eyebrows. “Quit? The day after her boss is murdered?”

“Indeed.”

“A bit odd, don’t you think?

“A bit inconsiderate is more like it,” she sniffed. “No notice, nothing. She left us high and dry. I can’t get on the drive where she and Mr. Kincaid saved most of their files, and I can’t make heads or tails of what anything is.”

_I wonder if she knows any other clichés?_ Sherlock’s mocking voice echoed in John’s head.

Ms. Henstridge picked a folder off the top of a stack and thrust it at him.

“Here, take a look at this file. Is this a new contact? Possible applicant? There’s no telling. And on top of that, the type of business—an auto parts store?” She stopped herself mid-rant. “I apologize. It’s been a difficult day.”

“Of course.” He handed her back her file and took out a small notepad and pen.

Composing herself took a minute. “How may I assist you?”

“I only have a few questions. How long did Mr. Kincaid work here?” John made sure to speak loudly and clearly so the microphone would pick his voice up.

“Two years.”

“Did he have any enemies that you know of?”

She stared at him in confusion. “I don’t understand why you are asking that. You’ve already arrested someone.”

“Yes, indeed, we’re just covering all the bases.” John tried to look as if he weren’t lying.

She frowned. “No, he had no enemies that I know of.”

“And Ruby Danley was his secretary?”

“Well, when he started, Mrs. Ainsworth-King was his executive assistant. She had been with us for many years, and I thought she would be a good fit because she was very capable and knew everything about the organization. However, after about a month, he let me know she wasn’t working out. It was all very awkward, and Marilyn ended up retiring.

“That’s when Mr. Kincaid brought on Ms. Danley,” she added disapprovingly.

John tapped his pen on his pad, trying to think of what else Sherlock might want to know. “Can you describe her?”

“Pretty; on the short side; long, blonde hair; brown eyes. Maybe around 30 years old.”

“And what  . . . “ John racked his brain on what to ask next. “What is her personality like?”

“Have you ever heard the term ‘dumb blonde’?” The corners of Ms. Henstridge’s mouth turned up a little. “But she must have served Mr. Kincaid well enough, I suppose, because he never complained about her. Except that she had no head for numbers. She gave our accounting department fits.”

“Really?” John nodded encouragingly.

“Oh yes.” Leaning back in her chair, Ms Henstridge surveyed the piles on the desk. “Mr. Kincaid’s expense reports always had an error or a receipt missing.”

“He travelled quite a bit, did he?”

“He often visited organizations that had received grants. And those who wanted grants courted him and gave him gifts and trips.”

“Is that proper?” 

She shrugged. “No, but Mr. Kincaid allowed it to happen. Our grants aren’t awarded based on one man’s opinion, but he was the person in charge.”

“Could it be that he and Ruby were romantically involved?” John proposed.

The older woman leaned in. “I thought so at first, because she didn’t go through the normal interviews and procedures. He simply produced her as a _fait accompli_ and told me to have her fill out the proper paperwork.” She lowered her voice. “But on the occasions I saw them interact, I didn’t get the sense that they were dating. In fact, I don’t think he liked her very much.”

As John processed this information, Ms. Henstridge glanced at the clock on the wall behind the desk. “I suppose you need to see his office?”

That was all the invitation John needed. “Yes, of course.”

She stood to her full height, which was several inches taller than him, and pulled a set of keys from her pocket.

“I hope this won’t take too long. I need to get back on the phone with IT.” She turned the knob and pushed the door open, speaking more to herself than to him. “I hadn’t even opened it today.”

That’s when she shrieked. Without thinking, John pushed passed her into the room and flipped the light switch.

Evan Kincaid’s office also had a nautical theme, but at that moment it looked like _The Wreck of the Hesperus_. Every drawer of the large wooden desk had been pulled out and dumped on the floor, file cabinets had been emptied, and the claret-colored executive desk chair had been slashed open.

“I’ll call DI Lestrade.” John rapidly punched in the number.

Ms. Henstridge’s hands clutched the pearls at her neck. “Who could have done this?”

Assured that Lestrade was on his way, John guided her back to the anteroom. “Do you need some tea? Water?”

“I’m fine.” She cleared her throat. “How on earth am I going to sort that mess out?”

John crouched down to examine the lock. “Ms. Henstridge, who has keys to this office?”

“Mr. Kincaid, Ruby, and myself.”

“Did Ruby turn her key in?” he asked.

“No,” she realized. “She didn’t. Or her badge. She just left a message. With all the upset this morning over Mr. Kincaid, I didn’t remember she hadn’t turned them in. I also haven’t gotten back Mr. Kincaid’s key or badge from the police.”

“Do the badges give you access to the building after hours?”

“Yes.”

“Well, no one picked this lock, so they had to have had a key,” he concluded. “When were you in his office last?”

“Yesterday evening after everyone left the reception. I noticed the lights were on and I went in to turn them off.”

“So the break-in happened last night,” John surmised.

“But how could this Holmes person have broken in? What was he after?”

“I don't think it was him.” John turned and snapped a few photos of the office.

Lestrade arrived shortly with Anderson and his team in tow and let John know that he had sent Sally Donovan over to Kincaid’s flat. Within minutes she texted to say that it also had been ransacked.

John pulled Lestrade to one side. “Doesn’t this prove Sherlock didn’t do it? Whoever did this most certainly is the killer. He was after something from Kincaid and killed him when he didn’t get it.”

“Listen, more than likely you’re right, but this doesn’t get Sherlock off the hook, yeah?” Lestrade grimaced. “At least these break-ins give us something to work with to clear his name and get him out. After he’s done detoxing, that is.”

The physical pain of withdrawal was something John had witnessed as a doctor on several occasions. He winced at the thought of his friend going through such awful pain. “This first week will be the worst for him.”

“It’s what comes after that worries me," said Lestrade

John couldn’t think of that now. “I’m going to track down Ruby Danley, the victim’s assistant, to see what she knows.”

“Good man,” Lestrade said. “We’re going to work this scene and the one at Kincaid’s flat. Maybe we’ll get lucky and find some prints. Anderson and I will be here for a while. I think we should hold off meeting tonight.”

“I’ll text Molly and let her know.” John observed the cops as they combed through Kincaid’s office. “Someone was desperate to find something. I wonder what it was?”


	7. Detox

_“The turkey will be ready in an hour.”_

_Sherlock felt the couch cushion shift as Molly fit like a missing puzzle piece next to him and draped his right arm around her shoulders. He placed a kiss on the top of her head and inhaled deeply. She smelled of cloves and cinnamon, warm and comforting._

_Molly had made herself at home in his kitchen after their walk in the early morning snow. Decorated cookies in the shape of snowmen were evidence of her expert work with cookie cutters. The pudding, which she had finished the night before, was resting, and the aroma of roast turkey, which Sherlock had to admit was appealing, filled the flat._

_Over the past week, Molly had decorated his rooms, although not to the extent she had her own flat. The colorful lights she had draped around the windows twinkled brightly as snow upon snow cobwebbed across the windowpanes. Although he had protested, Sherlock had relented to Molly’s pleading and let her put a tiny tree in the corner. He had argued that the one in her flat was enough for the both of them—every centimeter of it was covered with garland, ornaments, and tinsel—but together they decorated the small evergreen at Baker Street, hanging test tubes Molly had hot glued red ribbon to and the tape from several cassettes he no longer needed._

_“Mrs. Hudson texted to say she got to her sister’s all right,” Molly reported, pocketing her mobile._

_“Hmmm.” Sherlock’s eyes darted across the computer screen as he took in the details of the case Lestrade had just sent. The detective inspector apparently had no plans for the holiday._

_Molly sat up to see what Sherlock was reading. “Are you working? On Christmas?”_

_Something in her tone told him this was a bit not good, so he closed his laptop. “Mycroft sends his greetings.”_

_“Oh?” Molly knit her fingers through his. “I thought he hates Christmas?”_

_“He does. However, he is with my parents, so I believe my mother made him email us Happy Christmas.”_

_Molly shivered and snuggled closer. “I’d better go change. John and Mary will be here soon.”_

_He appraised her jeans and sweatshirt. “What you have on is fine.”_

_“I’m going to wear my Christmas sweater,” she said stubbornly._

_It was all he could do not to shudder at the memory of the appliqued reindeer and the gold bells._

_“I do hope Mary remembers to bring the crackers,” she fretted, sitting up. “Maybe I should text her.”_

_“Why is that important?”_

_“They’re a Christmas tradition. Like this.” She pulled an artfully wrapped present out from under a throw pillow and placed it on his lap. “I know we didn’t agree on giving gifts this year, but it’s Christmas after all.”_

_He harrumphed loudly. “A holiday based on superstition and folklore—”_

_She clamped her hand over his mouth. “You promised. Not today.”_

_He nodded in acquiescence and kissed the palm of her hand, making her giggle._

_“Open it.”_

_He ripped the silver foil paper to reveal a book with the picture of what he knew to be an abandoned central line Tube station on the cover._

_“What is this?” he murmured, flipping the pages._

_“It’s all about abandoned sites around London; urban ghosts, if you will. But what makes it interesting is that there was an unsolved murder at each of the locations. I thought if it were a slow time for you case-wise, you could look through and see if any of them inspire you. Maybe you could solve some cold cases.”_

_He looked at her in wonder. “You never cease to amaze me, Molly Hooper.”_

_“You like it then?” Her brown eyes lit up._

_He let his kiss be his reply._

~s~s~s~s~s~

Sherlock forced down the bile that came with the latest wave of nausea. He had gone through detox enough times to know being sick to his stomach would subside. Eventually. His craving for the drugs, however, didn’t feel as if it would ever go away.

_Feel?_ he thought with contempt. _That’s all you’re about these days. Feelings and puke and weakness._

The warmth of his blood left him as he sat under the unforgiving fluorescent lights of the prison visiting room. The guard who had brought him ( _in his fifties, smoker, two children out of wedlock_ ) said John was on his way in, which cheered Sherlock slightly.

He had promised John he would try to come back, and on some level he meant it. Threads of his old life were temptingly close. He only had to hang on one breath at a time. But to go back meant giving up the drugs every cell of his body was screaming for.

When John left the interview room at Scotland Yard was when Sherlock began feeling the first signs of withdrawal creeping in—shaking, sneezing, and a general feeling of anxiety. Over the next two days, he plunged into the gravest symptoms; nausea, vomiting, diarrhea, and aches were nonstop.

His senses, which had been dulled while he was under the influence, rushed back to life. A tsunami of overwhelming smells, sounds, and sights engulfed him. But what had hit him as hard as one of John’s punches were his feelings.

He hated feelings.

Normally contained at all times, his emotions had been driven even deeper down by his drug use. His body was now purging everything, including feelings. He seemed to feel everything all at once, at every moment. His mind no longer had any control over the rest of him. He was exposed, vulnerable. Maybe that’s why memories of that Christmas kept floating behind his eyes.

Even he had limits for the amount of pain he could take, and he had reached his.

Sherlock tried to occupy his mind. He counted the tiles in the infirmary. He reviewed the Periodic Table in his mind. But most of his time was spent going over the few facts he could remember from the hazy night of Evan Kincaid’s murder. Without more data, he could not solve this case and he would go to trial.

That is when the depression hit him. To escape what he was experiencing, Sherlock gladly would have killed for a hit.

He could understand his body being weak. After all, it was only transport, subject to the appetites and weaknesses of the flesh. His mind normally could overrule his desires. Food, drink, sleep, sex—all carnal wants that could be filed away until he was forced to the end of his need. But his intellect had let him down and he had caved into the basest of all longings: drugs. How had his superior brain, as Mycroft so aptly put it, become so muddled?

It was contemptible to be this weak-minded.

“Sherlock?” John stood before him, shock written across his face.

Forced from his dark thoughts, the detective smiled bitterly. “I take it my appearance is not up to par.”

“God no.” The doctor pulled out a chair and sat. “How are you? The doctor told Greg that you are handling the detox as well as could be expected.”

Sherlock swallowed again, willing his brain to work. “I hope you brought all the details of the investigation. My mind is starving for data.”

“All you can think of is ‘data’ when you are barely off drugs?” John snapped.

Sherlock’s face hardened. “I must occupy my mind.”

“How about contemplating what the root cause of your addiction is?”

“There will be time enough for that when I get out of here.” Sherlock tapped his foot impatiently. “Now tell me what you have learned.”

John paused for a minute, then took out his mobile.

_Mycroft must have pulled some strings_ , Sherlock thought.

The good doctor played the conversation he had taped with Mrs. Henstridge. Sherlock listened intently, occasionally humming in agreement. Then John showed Sherlock the photos he had taken of the office.

“You’re smarter than you look,” Sherlock said, surprised.

“Well, thank you indeed.” John frowned. “What are you talking about?”

“Pursuing the line of questioning about Ruby Danley. I assume you spoke to her also?”

John shook his head. “I went to her flat the next day and she had cleared out. Packed a few suitcases and left leaving no forwarding address. Greg has checked to see if she has used any credit cards, but so far no joy. It’s as if she simply vanished.”

Sherlock steepled his fingers. It felt good to be deducing a case. “She either knows who the killer is, why Kincaid was murdered, or what the killer was looking for. She is terrified and has gone to ground. You have to find her.”

“Greg rechecked the evidence from the murder. Kincaid’s work badge and keys weren’t on him. The killer had to have taken them to get into the foundation offices that same night,” John said.

“What did the autopsy show?” Sherlock’s mind was whirring. He was barely aware of his physical discomfort.

“Nothing out of the ordinary. Kincaid died as the result of the stab wounds. The knife used was run of the mill. It can’t be traced. Oh and Lestrade learned Kincaid had recently been to Isle of Wight and before that to Mexico.”

“Well, your next step is obvious,” Sherlock said.

“I-It is?”

“Of course,” Sherlock replied with a hint of his old arrogance. “You have to meet with Mrs. Ainsworth-King. Don’t forget, she is very organized.”

John stared at him hard. “I will on one condition.”

“What?” 

“You will start physical therapy exercises for your leg.”

The small measure of satisfaction he felt suddenly disappeared. “I don't suppose there is any point in arguing with you? Or telling you that I am in misery and that to add physical therapy is absolutely insane?”

“No point at all,” the doctor said gravely. 

Sherlock felt a tremor start under his toes and swell through his body bringing with it rage and frustration.

“Who are you to give me conditions?” he seethed.

John’s draw dropped. “What?”

“You have no idea what I’m going through right now!” Sherlock shouted. “You have no right to tell me what to do.”

Anger flashed across his mild-mannered friend’s eyes. “Shut the hell up, Sherlock. I’m a doctor. Of course I know what you must be going through. But you can do this. You can beat it. I saw troops a lot weaker than you come back from Afghanistan addicted, and they got clean. You can, too. We all believe in you.”

The anger melted as fast as it came, and the word escaped his lips before Sherlock could stop it. “Molly?”

“What about her?”

“Does she  . . . believe in me?”

_Pathetic. Sentimental. Weak._ Sherlock shook his head violently. 

A little taken aback, John spoke cautiously. “I’m not going to lie. I don’t know if she’ll forgive you. But does she care? Yes, that hasn’t changed. She even is helping us."

Sherlock’s eyebrows shot up. “How?”

“She’s going to be available if Greg or I find any evidence that needs analyzing. She met with us last night to brainstorm and wants to help investigate, too.”

Sherlock leaned back, the tremulous feeling threatening to overcome him again, but this time to drive him to sorrow. “I had no idea.”

“You always have been a daft prick when it comes to understanding how much your friends care about you.”

Sherlock looked over at his friend sharply. “You’re talking about how much you care.”

John shrugged and stared at the table.

“Will you forgive me?” Sherlock finally asked.

“You haven’t asked,” John bit out.

“Can you forgive me? Is it even a possibility?” Sherlock’s voice was barely audible.

“Maybe,” John said gruffly.

Sherlock dropped his head into his hands, trying to ignore the insistent drumbeat under his skin demanding drugs.

“We will get you out of here, but right now you are a mess," John said. "You have to go through this. You just have to hang on.”

The minutes ticked by. The threads of his old life were right there. Sherlock closed his eyes and reached for them.

“I will.”


	8. Propriety

If there was a speck of dust in Mrs. Ainsworth-King’s sitting room, John was sure it would take one look around and run in terror.

_Provided, of course, it had eyes and legs_ , Sherlock’s sarcastic voice echoed in his brain.

John closed his eyes. He hoped Sherlock would recover and they could once again solve cases, if only to rid himself of faux Sherlock in his mind.

With terrifying precision, everything in the room was in its proper place, orderly and clean. It was as if he were in a movie that called for a set to look like an older woman's living room. He imagined Mr. Ainsworth-King, if there was one, was relegated to the garage with his television and crisps, never allowed to enter this room.

John shifted on the edge of the uncomfortable couch and watched as Mrs. Ainsworth-King carefully set the tray with the tea service on the table in front of him. With her wooly white hair and naturally pink cheeks, she could have been someone’s kindly grandmother, but her steel gray eyes had the fierce look of a woman who was used to having her way—and considered it to be the right and only way. 

“I presume you’d like sugar,” she stated.

“No, thank you,” he replied.

She flicked her eyes over him. “As you wish.”

Sitting stiffly in the chair across from him, she flattened out her skirt. “I’m not sure how I can possibly help Scotland Yard, but I am happy to try.”

“I’m going to record our conversation, if you don’t mind.” John showed her his mobile. “I’ll also be taking notes.”

“If you need to in order to help you remember.” She sniffed.

“Tell me about what led to your leaving the Jilbert Foundation.”

“I retired,” she replied.

“How did you get on with Mr. Kincaid?”

She paused. “We didn’t see eye to eye on things.”

“Such as?”

“I hate to speak ill of the dead.” Mrs. Ainsworth-King frowned severely.

“It’s important,” John said.

She relented. “I didn’t mind running a few errands if they related to the foundation, but Mr. Kincaid wanted me to take care of personal matters for him. Taking packages and envelopes here and there, picking up packages and envelopes and bringing them back to the office.” She shook her head. “And then there was the filing system.”

“Filing system?”

“My files were perfectly organized.” She sat up even straighter, if that were possible. “He wanted me to use a system he had come up with. It was strange, not even alphabetical! When I refused, we had words.”

John tapped his pen on his chin. “That seems like a strange thing for him to insist on.”

She wagged her head. “Exactly. It was soon after that I was told he wanted someone that ‘meshed with him better.’ That’s the phrase they used. Did his bidding without question was more like it.” Her voice trailed off.

John could tell she had taken pride in her work and still smarted from being let go. “You aren’t the type of professional woman who would let someone bully her into doing something improper.”

He thought he saw a ghost of a smile. “I certainly wouldn’t be considered a push over,” she agreed.

“Thank you for your time, Mrs. Ainsworth-King. If you think of anything else, would you let me know?”

She furrowed her brow. “Come to think of it, there was one other thing.”

“Yes?” he encouraged her.

“I did pick up an envelope for him at the very beginning, before I understood it wasn’t work related,” she confided in him. “The young man I picked it up from was very suspicious looking. He wasn’t a businessman.”

“Where did you meet him?”

“In the car park by a restaurant called Alice’s far away in Kimpton.”

“What did he look like?”

“It was dark and he had the hood of his coat up, but he had very blue eyes.”

s~s~s~s~s

Sherlock had never doubted the impressive influence his brother wielded in world politics. A phone call from his office could change an election. A personal visit could stop a war. What Sherlock hadn’t realized, however, was how strongly Mycroft’s well-manicured hands could pull puppet strings throughout Britain’s legal system.

During his long hours in his cell, Sherlock came to the conclusion that unless his brother found a way to drop him into a dark hole, the detective’s high profile would always keep the media interested. Soon there would be inquiries into why the detective hadn’t been arraigned. No doubt Mycroft had learned that he had sobered up from Lestrade or John or both, because suddenly Sherlock’s delayed court hearing appeared on the docket.

Mycroft did stick to his commitment not to fund Sherlock’s defense. He couldn’t confirm it, but he sensed Mycroft did have a hand in the appointment of Sabrina Boone to represent him. A levelheaded young woman of above average intelligence, her approach to the law was logical and tenacious. She clearly was brighter than most court-appointed counsels. 

But it was when Sherlock stood before the judge that the full weight of Mycroft’s involvement became clear: Bertie Quinn was presiding. He was balding with heavy jowls, but Sherlock still recognized him as the eager boy in the class below Mycroft’s who was always hanging around. After Ms. Boone assured the court that a “high-placed individual” guaranteed Sherlock would not be a flight risk—a claim that never would have been allowed in another courtroom—Bertie granted bail (albeit a high one) and ordered Sherlock to hand over his passport.

If his last name were Smythe or McDougall or Neilson, the situation would be different. The circumstantial evidence would keep him in prison. But he was a Holmes. And it was clear that Mycroft wanted him out.

Something as minor as not having a passport wouldn’t have stopped Sherlock if he chose to flee, but he decided to do his part and turn in his real passport, keeping two excellent forgeries in his strongbox. He did want to stay clean and regain his life. The worst of the withdrawal symptoms had ended, and although he still craved the drugs, at least for now he was sober.

The bail was paid anonymously the next day.

John had brought Sherlock a fresh change of clothes. Sherlock grimaced at the choice of suit, tie, and shirt. It wasn’t a color combination he would have put together, but it was of the best quality straight from his closet at Baker Street. He sighed in pleasure as the 140-thread-count, two-ply cotton dress shirt glided seamlessly against his skin. Sherlock had always prided himself on impeccable grooming. Staying clean in his person was the first step to keeping clean.

Catching a glance of himself in the small mirror, he paused. No matter how tailored his suit was, it couldn’t hide the fact it hung limply off his frame. His lean frame had always been long and muscular like a swimmer, but now it was thin and his face was hollowed out. He looked away quickly.

All he needed now was his Belstaff coat, but he assumed it was still at the cleaners. He had gotten quite a bit of Evan Kincaid’s blood on it.

John had a cab waiting for him at the curb.

“I spoke to Mary,” the doctor began haltingly as they headed into traffic.

“And you want me to stay with you. So you can keep an eye on me?” Sherlock squinted against the midday sun. It was warm for that time of year, and his senses were extra sensitive.

“No. We agreed I should move back in to Baker Street for a short time. But yes, so I can keep an eye on you.”

Sherlock lifted an eyebrow. “I presume Baker Street has been thoroughly detoxed, too?”

John nodded. “The place has never been cleaner. Mrs. Hudson sprang for a new refrigerator rather than deal with what was growing in the old one.”

“By thoroughly detoxed I meant all the paraphernalia removed,” Sherlock clarified condescendingly.

“I know what you meant.” John glanced at his friend sharply. “The place has never been cleaner.”

Sherlock made a noncommittal noise. “Did you check under the floor board under the couch?”

John nodded. “And in the radio and in the horns on the wall and behind the brick in the back of the fireplace.”

Sherlock didn’t think anyone knew about the brick in the fireplace. “And Wiggins? He knows not to come around?”

When John didn’t immediately answer, Sherlock’s head swiveled sharply. “What’s happened to him?”

“Some new dealers are moving into the flophouse area. They beat him up proper, broke a few of his ribs. He’ll be released from hospital tomorrow. He says he will never go back to that life. I actually believe him.” John sounded surprised. “He has no education, no training. I don’t know where he will find a real job. Maybe St. Bart’s has an opening for a custodian or someone to help in the morgue. I’ll ask Molly.”

The muscles in Sherlock’s jaw involuntarily clenched. She hadn’t visited him in prison, and he was glad. He never wanted to see that look of despair in her eyes again. But he couldn’t think of her now.

“We’re headed in the wrong direction.”

John looked out the window at the passing street sign. “No we aren’t.”

“We need to go to Ruby Danley’s place,” Sherlock said firmly. “You said it was out of the city.”

“I already went there, remember?” John mumbled as he typed a text. “And we need to talk about my visit with Mrs. Ainsworth-King.”

“I haven’t been to Ruby’s home, and I am on the case now,” Sherlock said with new determination. “Cabbie, we have a change of destination.”

~s~s~s~s~s~

**He’s free.**

Molly reread John’s text several times before she looked across the table at her lab assistant, Lori Koetsier. The young woman’s striking green eyes, lined with black kohl, lit up.

“Good news?”

Molly pocketed her mobile and forced a smile. “He’s been released.”

Lori let out a high-pitched squeal of delight, attracting the attention of the people seated near them in the hospital canteen. “Oh thank heavens! You must be so relieved.”

“I must be,” Molly echoed with a catch in her voice.

Lori was puzzled. “Aren’t you happy?”

“I am. But I don’t know what this means for us. Or if there even is an us.” Molly toyed with her straw.

Lori brushed back a strand of her newly dyed lavender hair. “I know this is really hard on you. I’ve seen you go through so much this year. I don’t know how you stick with him. I couldn’t do it.”

Molly shrugged. “I love him. God, that sounds so pathetic, doesn’t it? But there it is.”

“And now he’s free,” Lori said as if she were telling the end of a fairy tale.

“He’s out on bail,” Molly corrected her. “He still is facing a murder charge.”

Lori leaned forward. “Don’t look now, but your ‘friend’ is coming over here. Again.”

Turning in her seat, Molly stared up at the pleasant grin of A. J. Fitzsimmons. “Sorry to disturb you again,” he said, “but I forgot something earlier.”

Inhaling deeply through her nose, Molly said, “Oh?”

“Here is the book I mentioned. I really think you’ll enjoy it.” He handed her a well-worn paperback.

Molly scanned the back cover. “Thank you. I’ll get it back to you soon.”

“No rush at all. Well, I’ll be off!” With a courteous nod in Lori’s direction, he walked out leaning on his elegant cane.

“Does he like you?” Lori wrinkled her nose. “He’s old enough to be your dad.”

“I was sure I made it clear I wasn’t interested.” Molly sighed. “And he said to think about him as an uncle.”

“A purvy uncle,” Lori muttered.

Molly slipped the book into her lab coat pocket. “I’ll meet you back in the lab.”

She was grateful that Lori took the hint and left. Molly’s head was pounding and all she wanted was quiet. It was days like this she wanted to chuck it all and move to the country and teach the kitten she had just bought to paint and become an Internet sensation.

“You can only eat an elephant a bite at a time,” her mother used to say.

Molly used to wonder why anyone would want to eat an elephant, but she knew her mom meant to take on something overwhelming one step at a time. Right now her entire life felt overwhelming, so she began to take an inventory of her life in a very logical way. Sherlock would be proud.

She winced. The mere thought of him caused her physical pain. He was free but hadn’t contacted her. It could be the he didn’t care about her, like he said, or that he was respecting her boundaries.

It hurt too much to think of him, so she turned her mind toward A. J. Fitzsimmons, who was paying too much attention to her. Since the board meeting, he had stopped by the lab to say hello and discuss the book that was now in her pocket, asked her to come to his office to learn about other possible grants, and now had stopped at her table twice in 15 minutes.

Molly was a normal woman. She noticed attractive men, like the one who passed her in the hallway on the way to A. J.’s office. That man had looked a little rough around the edges but still was tall and handsome. A. J. was handsome, in an older, distinguished fashion, but she didn’t feel flattered by his attention. Actually, she felt more than a little uncomfortable. It wasn’t right to let him think she might someday like him when the truth was she never would. She was in love with Sherlock and always would be.

_I’ve had enough,_ she decided. _The next time I see him, I’ll make it extra clear I’m not interested._


	9. Unexpected

“Mr. Holmes, an Agent Dodge is here to see you.”

From all appearances, Anthea was behaving normally. She stood in the doorway of his office, shoulders back in perfect posture, her hands by the sides of her dark skirt. But behind the attractive brunette’s measured tone was an implicit question.

Mycroft didn’t have to be present to know what had happened. The minute Agent Dodge appeared at her desk, Anthea would have known something was off. She memorized her boss’s schedule daily. Still, she would have confirmed what she already knew—Dodge didn’t have an appointment. Next she would have covertly checked her Blackberry to see if she had a file on him; there would be none. Immediately on her guard, she would have brushed her fingertips over the small pistol she always had strapped to her thigh to make sure it was ready if needed. Mycroft only had to give her the slightest indication that something was wrong, and she would take action.

But he didn’t. Dodge’s appearance at his office, while not planned, wasn’t wholly unexpected. Mycroft calmly turned the page of the book he was reading.

“Show him in, please.”

Anthea’s stilettos tapped a rhythm down the hall and back again as she escorted Rick Dodge into the room. In one glance Mycroft could tell Dodge was divorced, had two rebellious teenagers, and was bitter about his station in life. From his downturned mouth to his stooped shoulders to his thick-soled shoes, Dodge looked like a man who wanted to be something more than what he was.

“Thank you, Anthea. That is all.” Mycroft gestured for Dodge to take a seat across from him. He waited until he heard the door click shut before speaking. “I understand that you are the point person on this case.”

“My team and I have been working on it for more than a year,” Dodge said. “But the case is about to fall apart.”

Mycroft nodded solemnly. “Your superior informed me of the circumstances.”

Dodge shifted in his seat. “We’d be further along if your brother had been released sooner.”

Ignoring the criticism, Mycroft forced a polite smile. “Lord Ashton also informed me of your thoughts on that matter. I will tell you the same thing I told him: I had my reasons for keeping Sherlock in jail as long as I did.”

“Now that he is free, can you guarantee he will get me what I need?”

“My brother, Agent Dodge, won’t stop until he gets answers.”

Mycroft thought his tone would have warned the other man off, but Dodge lumbered on. “You’re having him followed?”

“Of course. He’s at Ruby Danley’s flat right now.”

“He won’t find anything there. I searched it personally.” Dodge scoffed.

“Sherlock Holmes will find whatever you missed.” Mycroft’s thin patience was gone. “This visit was unnecessary. Your questions are unnecessary. Why are you here?”

"I wanted to remind you of the deal you made," Dodge said hotly. “I wanted to remind you that the case I—we—have devoted ourselves to is on the brink of unraveling. It's too important to—”

“I understand the gravity of the situation. I do not need to be reminded. Of anything. Ever.” Mycroft punctuated each word like a prizefighter landing a punch, his steely gaze holding Dodge’s dark eyes.

Dodge looked away first.

Right on cue, Anthea opened the door.

Mycroft picked up his book and began reading again. “Good day, Agent Dodge. Anthea will show you out.”

~s~s~s~s~s~

The long trip in traffic to Ruby Danley’s home afforded Sherlock the opportunity to listen to John’s recording of the conversation with Mrs. Ainsworth-King several times. His body’s cries for a fix faded the more his mind became engaged.

“Several things are now in focus,” Sherlock said excitedly as the cab pulled to a stop in front of a nondescript row of apartment buildings. “Pay the cabbie, won’t you?”

Seeing his best friend’s flummoxed expression, Sherlock smiled. “Just out of jail. No money.”

The landlord greeted them with a glare. “I wish you lot would stop bothering me for the key! I have better things to do with my time.”

“I apologize, Mr. Rivers.” John flushed in annoyance.

The grizzled old man muttered all the way to Ruby’s door. “At least you could come on the same day instead of time after time after time.”

“I’ve only been here twice.” John corrected him.

“You, maybe. But then there was that other cop.”

Sherlock paused. “Was it Inspector Lestrade?”

“No, that’s not the name.”

Rivers fumbled in his sweater pocket for a key only to have the door suddenly open. For a split second Sherlock thought the blonde standing opposite him was Ruby Danley; she matched the description Ms. Henstridge had given John. But he quickly noted the gray streaks in her blonde hair; she had to be twenty years older than Ruby. Sherlock deduced from her puffy, glassy eyes that she was a concerned relative.

“May I help you?” She looked them over cautiously.

“I’m Sherlock Holmes, and this is my associate, Dr. Watson. We are looking for Ruby.”

The woman’s lower lip trembled. “She isn’t here.”

John stepped forward. “We are working with Scotland Yard to find her.”

“Do come in.” The woman sniffed loudly. “I’m Missy Guthrie, Ruby’s aunt.”

As John said goodbye to Mr. Rivers and murmured some nondescript words of comfort to Missy, Sherlock strode in and began to assess the flat. Like a prize thoroughbred stallion that has been kept in the barn too long, his intellect raced through the scene.

_Décor is modern and cheap. The bookshelves only have a few cheap paperbacks—not an intellectual. Framed pictures of Ruby with her mates taken at a pub, a church fete, a party, the seashore. She likes to have fun. A small television in the corner; no gaming systems or other electronics. That is not how she spends her time._

Like a buzzing mosquito, Missy’s voice filled the background of his thoughts.

“She calls me every week. After I heard about Evan Kincaid’s murder, I was sure she’d call, but nothing. She didn’t text me back. I had a key, so I let myself in.”

“I’m sure we will find her,” John soothed.

“What if she’s been murdered, too?” Missy began to sob.

Ignoring her, Sherlock walked across the room until a painful muscle spasm in his leg stopped him in his tracks. His sharp intake of air didn’t go unnoticed by the doctor who was suddenly at his elbow.

“I’m fine,” Sherlock said and pushed open the door to Ruby’s bedroom.

 _And here is what she spends money on._ He smiled smugly at the shopping bags that littered the floor.

“You said she had packed suitcases,” Sherlock intoned deeply.

“I assumed she had. Why else would there be clothes everywhere?” John gestured to the stacks of clothing on the dresser and bed.

“You know my methods, John. You never assume anything. Didn’t you notice how it all is organized by outfits and colors? She may not be neat, but she does have a system,” the detective said, picking up a silk blouse that still had the tags on it. “She has placed clothing everywhere because she has no more room.”

Sherlock opened the closet to reveal it was filled to bursting.

“Ruby loves fashion. I told her she should have gone to design school,” Missy said, drying her tears. “She’d spend all her money on clothes and shoes if she could. Well, that, and the trip she’s planning to St. Thomas.”

“Why did she decide to become an administrative assistant?” Sherlock glanced at Ruby’s bedside table. Next to the lamp were a large conch shell, a bottle of hand lotion, and a few pieces of mail. He thumbed through them to see several credit card statements.

“Why? Because Evan Kincaid offered her the job!” Missy said with a short laugh. “She was a barista before. Evan came in to buy his daily latte. They used to talk. She thought he was chatting her up, but it turns out he wanted her to come work for him. Of course she said yes. She was worried, though.”

“About?” John asked.

“She’s bad with numbers. She’s dyslexic, you see. But that didn’t matter so much to him.”

“What did she think of Mr. Kincaid?” Energized by the interaction, Sherlock crossed the room and went to the kitchen, which was decorated with black and red accessories. Postcards from the Beachfront Inn clung tenaciously to the refrigerator under magnets that advertised a local plumber and a Chinese takeaway place in Bath.

Missy slumped against the doorjamb. “Ruby said he was bossy. Thought he was so great.”

“Did she say anything about a new file system?” John asked.

“As a matter of fact, she did.” Missy looked surprised. “She said it was strange—colors and numbers that didn’t make sense. But it’s what he wanted, so she did what she was told. Here’s one right here”

Missy pulled an envelope out from next to the toaster and handed it to Sherlock. The back was plain but the front had a series of boxes filled in with different colored felt-tipped markers followed by 1298054. The only thing on it that made sense was the date from two weeks earlier.

“Why would anyone think this is better than just using the alphabet?” John asked.

Sherlock squinted at the colored boxes. They reminded him of something, but his brain still was foggy. He would go into his mind palace later. Pocketing the envelope, he turned to Missy.

“What about taking care of personal errands for Mr. Kincaid? Did she mention that?”

Nodding, she sat at the small kitchen table. “She didn’t like it at all. I told her she either had to put up with it or she could quit. That’s the choices we get with our jobs. I guess she took my advice because she stopped complaining.” Missy paused. “Actually, she seemed to become much happier.”

“How long ago was that?” Sherlock asked sharply.

“I’m not sure, really. Several months back? I chalked it up to her planning her vacation to St. Thomas.” Missy’s voice caught. “Mr. Holmes, do you know what is going on?”

Steepling his fingers, Sherlock said, “Where would Ruby go if she wanted to hide away? Somewhere she would feel safe.”

“With me,” Missy declared, tearing up. “She would have come to me.”

“Is there anyone else she would have contacted? Parents? Does she have a boyfriend?”

“Her parents are in Canada.” Missy stood and reached for a box of tissues. “She was always seeing a new bloke. She mentioned a guy named Jackson in passing, but I don’t know who he is. He could have been one of her friends.”

Wiping her streaking mascara, Missy excused herself to the bathroom.

“Where do you think Ruby is?” John whispered.

“Here.” Sherlock snatched the postcards off the refrigerator. “These postcards weren’t sent to her. She bought them. See? They are blank on the other side. Some of them are more faded than the others due to longer exposure to the sun here in this kitchen; she’s had them longer. That means she’s been to this Beachfront Inn repeatedly.”

John stared at the cozy hotel pictured. “That doesn’t mean she’s there now.”

“She hasn’t contacted Missy, which means she didn’t want to bring trouble to her aunt.” Sherlock spoke faster and faster. “I saw on her credit card bill that she went to this inn three times in the last three months. It is a place she enjoys and feels safe. Hurry, John, we don’t have time to lose!”

Sherlock sped toward the door but stopped abruptly when John grabbed his arm.

“Listen to me for a minute. You just got out of jail. You just got done detoxing. You have put your body through hell these past six months and it is not keeping up with your mind,” John insisted.

Sherlock pulled his arm away. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Your hands are shaking, Sherlock," John said quietly. "You haven’t eaten or had anything to drink. Even if we were to magically teleport to a train station right now, there is no way we could get to the coast until later tonight. So let’s go back to Baker Street, regroup, and head out in the morning.”

"No." Sherlock's dark curls waved as he shook his head emphatically. "I am back doing what I need to do. Once I find Ruby I can discover what was behind Kincaid's murder and clear my name."

"And we will." John sighed. "Think about it, Sherlock. Who is this other cop who was here? Don't you think we need to find that out?"

Sherlock set his jaw stubbornly."If you don't want to come with me, then stay here. I'll get my own cab."

"One problem, mate."

"Oh, and what's that?" Sherlock snapped.

John rocked back on his heels. "You just got out of jail. No money."

~s~s~s~s~s~

Sherlock hated to admit when John was right about something. About anything. However, the detective did allow himself to close his eyes on the return trip to London. That would be concession enough to John that he was indeed tired. And John was right about learning who the policeman was that visited Ruby's flat. When they finally arrived at 221B Baker Street, he was filled with trepidation.

"John, did you check behind the Periodic Table in my room?"

"Yes." The doctor pulled out the key he still had to the residence. "Sherlock, this flat is clean. I will be here to help you, remember? You are going to be all right."

Sherlock nodded and followed John up the familiar stairs, hanging back for a moment to take in the scent of Mrs. Hudson's lemon cleaning wax and a mixture of vanilla and honey. He knew before John opened the door to his sitting room who would be there.

The loveliest pair of doe eyes he had ever seen looked up at him.

"Hello Sherlock."

 


	10. Encounter

Molly barely had time to register the telltale creak of the stairs at Baker Street before the door swung open and Sherlock stood before her. Motionless in the doorway, he stared at her like a man lost in the desert who had stumbled upon an unexpected oasis.

“Hello, Sherlock.” She dug her fingernails into her palms to stop her voice from quivering.

John slipped around the detective and gave a little wave. “Hi, Molly. Where’s Mary?”

“She’s making your bed.”

“Right. I’ll go see if she needs help.” He shifted awkwardly and waited a second or two before leaving them alone.

Sherlock’s blue-green eyes raked over her, and she involuntarily shivered. Tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear, Molly took in a ragged breath. “Mary texted she was bringing a few things over to set up John’s room. I-I tagged along,” she said overly brightly. “I was just getting ready to leave. I didn’t know you’d be here.”

If he noticed her obvious fib, he didn’t raise an eyebrow.

Fumbling with her striped bag, Molly walked over to the hearth. “I understand you were running down leads today. I hope everything went well.”

Making small talk wasn’t her suit, even with the man she loved body and soul. She absently ran a hand over the mantle. She had never seen it so clean. Dust free, clutter free, Sherlock free. The last time she had been there, a knife had pinned a stack of papers to the front of it. Now there was no sign of the knife or a scrap of paper. The crew Mycroft sent over had literally sterilized the place. Even the skull had received a good buffing. Gone were the scents of experiments, of Sherlock’s aftershave, of old bookbindings and dusty newspapers.

“I’m sober.”

The rich timbre of his voice vibrated in her very core. Flushing to her roots, Molly turned. Sherlock had stepped into the sitting room, looking at her as if he had never seen her before. She fought the impulse to throw her arms around his neck and hold him tightly.

“I’m sober,” he declared again, as if the knowledge and its implications were just now dawning on him.

“I’m glad.” Molly’s heart beat wildly.

Did she move toward him or did he cross the room to her? All Molly knew was that she was in his arms at last. His searching mouth found hers and their kiss was deep, long, and full of need. Her fingers snaked through his curls of their own accord as his body molded against hers. She wanted to give in to the part of her heart that had ached for this moment. But she knew it wasn’t right, for either of them. Fighting against her own longing, she broke away.

“No,” she whispered.

Not trusting herself to stand so close to him, Molly put a safe distance between them.

“I don’t understand.” Sherlock’s face was a study in confusion.

“All the awful things you said and did. I can’t pretend they didn’t happen.”

“I see.” He took a couple of steps back, never breaking eye contact with her.  
  
“You’ve been sober only for a week,” she said. “You need to go to a proper rehab.”

“Right now I am more concerned about not going to prison for murder.” Sherlock felt in his coat pocket for a pack of cigarettes he had picked up. “I’m not guilty, Molly. I didn’t kill Evan Kincaid.”

“Of course,“ she said uneasily.

“I am sorry for the scene I made at your reception. I couldn’t help myself.” He lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply.

“That is one of the reasons you need to get to the root cause of why you took drugs,” she insisted.

“A therapist?” he scoffed. “You want me to talk to some pinhead shrink about how mummy and daddy didn’t treat me right? Discuss my feelings? I have you and John. I don't need anyone else.”

Sherlock turned and sat on the couch.

“I’m glad you are clean,” Molly said. “But don’t mistake my being here for us getting back together.”

“Then why are you here?” he demanded.

The question took her by surprise. She had gone with Mary to pick up some groceries. She had wanted to help. She hadn’t known when he would come home. She didn’t hope to see him.

Another obvious fib.

Flustered, Molly snapped, “It was an impulse, really.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “Why are you here?”

Molly stormed over to him.

“Oh no you don’t. You don’t get to deduce me.” It was as if a river of emotions had had been undammed. “You blamed loving me for what happened to you. You mocked our love. I can’t forget the horrible things you said to me. I know it was the disease talking, but you still said the words. I don’t know how I can forgive you.”

If he felt upset or surprised by her outburst, he didn’t give any indication. “I don’t know how you can either. I certainly won’t.”

Stunned and shaking with emotion, Molly stopped, tears welling up.

“Sherlock . . .” she began brokenly.

A small, sad smile flitted across his lips and was gone. “I know, Molly. I know.”

John coughed loudly to announce his presence before he and Mary filed in. They eyed the couple warily.

“Sherlock, if you’re going to borrow my husband for a little bit, I insist that you keep him in one piece,” Mary teased.

“And I am going to insist that you eat something,” John said, wagging his finger.

“Molly and I went to the shops.” Mary smiled. “I have chicken in the oven.”

“I’d better be on my way.” Molly worried her lower lip, trying to catch Sherlock’s eye. The detective’s gaze was stubbornly fixed on the floor.

John and Mary waited for Sherlock to protest, but he didn’t. Molly shouldered her bag and quickly took her leave.

~s~s~s~s~s~

John jumped out of bed like a soldier who had missed roll call. He instantly knew where he was, but something was off kilter. Slipping on his robe, he shuffled into the darkened sitting room. A pinpoint of light was going up and down.

“I’m smoking,” Sherlock announced from his chair. "I'm not doing drugs."

The doctor yawned. “I would say it is bad form to start up again my first night here. Did you get any sleep?”

In the darkness he sensed his friend shrugged. “A few hours. I am trying, John, to master these impulses, to eat and sleep and not give in. If I focus on the case, it takes my mind off of other things.”

John slumped into his chair. “Is one of those things Molly?”

The pinpoint halted. “Yes.”

“She still loves you, you know,” John said confidently.

The pinpoint flickered up and down as Sherlock tapped his fingers.

“More’s the pity. I have given her nothing but grief and pain. She deserves better than me.”

“True.” John tried to calm him. “She loves you all the same.”

But Sherlock was worked up. “Molly Hooper deserves an ordinary, upright bloke—a banker or a doctor—someone who can treat her like the amazing, beautiful, intelligent woman she is.”

“Well, that amazing, beautiful, intelligent woman doesn’t want a boring banker or a dull doctor. She wants you. So how about you give her a break?”

“She wants me to see a counselor,” Sherlock chuckled a few minutes later.

John felt him lean forward in the darkness.

“That is a ridiculous idea, don’t you agree?”

“No,” the doctor answered honestly. “Addicts have a better chance at recovery if they learn to deal with their emotions and the causes behind their addictions.”

The pinpoint of light was snuffed out and another took its place.

Sherlock quickly changed the subject. “Today I will find Ruby Danley. She is sure to hold the answer to this mystery.”

His best friend, however, wasn’t easily distracted. “And after today? After you solve the murder? What then? Will you go to a real rehab?”

The two men sat in silence as the room began to fill with predawn light.


	11. Conversation

“Only an arrogant sod would invent a new filing system not based on the alphabet.”

Sherlock’s non-sequitar announced he finally had emerged from his mind palace as the train sped toward Dartmouth and hopefully Ruby Danley.

John grunted in agreement. “I’m surprised you haven’t created one yourself.”

“Who says I haven’t?”

John glanced over the newspaper he was reading to see Sherlock smirking. Signs of the old Sherlock were gradually emerging. It was good to see him start to recover his sense of humor. His appearance also was beginning to look more like normal. This morning he wore a dark wine-colored dress shirt, open at the neck, and a tailored black suit.

After their very-early morning conversation, John had caught a few hours more sleep before putting on jeans and a light yellow shirt and insisting his friend have more than just coffee for breakfast. Sherlock scowled but complied, his eagerness for the day’s adventure noticeable. It had been a quiet ride so far with Sherlock deep in thought and not many other passengers seated nearby.

The detective closed his eyes again. “What did Missy say Ruby thought about Kincaid? That he was full of himself?”

“Something like that.” John folded the paper neatly shut and put it on the empty seat next to him.

“Why would Kincaid create a filing system not based on the alphabet?”

John thought for a moment. “If he wanted to keep what he was filing a secret. In case someone stumbled across a file, that person couldn’t tell what it was about.”

“Why would he want to keep secret files at work?” Sherlock countered.

“I don’t know. Because he was so arrogant he didn’t think he would ever be caught there?”

“But here is the main question.” Sherlock’s eyes opened in a blue-green flash. “Most files are electronic now. But he insisted on old-fashioned paper files. Why?”

“He did have some electronic files,” John pointed out. “Bethel Henstridge was having fits trying to access the part of the server where he and Ruby saved documents.”

“Ah, yes, Ruby. When Kincaid was hired at Jilberts, he inherited a professional, organized secretary in Mrs. Ainsley-King. She has a wealth of knowledge and would be an invaluable asset. But she would have nothing to do with his unusual filing system, so Mrs. Ainsley-King had to go. He found Ruby, a girl who had never been an administrative assistant. A girl from a coffee shop. A girl who is dyslexic. A very odd choice to be the assistant to the president of a large foundation.”

John’s face lit up. “She did what she was told! She used his filing system without question, even though she didn’t like it. She also agreed to run personal errands for him, which Mrs. Ainsley-King refused to do.”

“Ruby has a keen sense of fashion,” Sherlock mused.

“What’s that got to do with anything?” John asked, baffled.

When Sherlock didn’t answer, John continued. “Well, I don’t care what kind of system Kincaid had. His files were a mess. Mrs. Henstridge showed me one that had information about an auto parts store. Why would an auto parts store need a grant?”

Sherlock looked at him sharply. “What was the name of the business?”

“I will text Mrs. Henstridge right now to find out.”

Sherlock unconsciously rubbed his bad leg, which quickly attracted the doctor’s attention.

“A little sore today,” Sherlock responded to his friend’s unasked question. “It’s fine. I am not taking anything for it.”

John’s mobile chimed. “Mrs. Henstridge says it is Marksman Auto Parts in Liverpool.”

Sherlock quickly took out his mobile and sent a few texts. “I believe Ruby cracked Kincaid's code. Think about it, John. Picking up and delivering envelopes coded with colors. Secret files coded with colors. With her fashion sense, she thinks in colors and color combinations. You saw all those outfits she had put together in her flat.”

“But what were the colors based on?” John asked. “You could only decode General Shan’s cypher when you knew what book it was based on.”

“Quickly, let me see your mobile!” Sherlock scrolled through the photos until he found the one he wanted. He presented the mobile back to John with a flourish. “There is your answer.”

“The framed maritime signal flags?” John gaped at the picture he had snapped outside Evan Kincaid’s nautical-themed office.

Sherlock smiled triumphantly. “She saw that picture every day at work. She recognized the patterns and put two and two together. A quick Google search told her what the colors of the flags meant. Suddenly she could read the code and knew what was in the files and the envelopes.”

“Maybe Kincaid was doing something illegal and she was blackmailing him,” John theorized. “She killed him when he stopped paying her off. She ransacked his office and flat looking for more money.”

“The argument I overheard was between several men, and I saw two people run off.” Sherlock shook his head. “No, if she cracked the code, she used it to her advantage. It had to do with money, a lot of money. Ruby had recently gone on a shopping spree and was planning a vacation to St. Thomas. Kincaid was undoubtedly doing something illegal.”

“Have you figured out who the other cop is? The one who went through Ruby’s flat?” John asked.

“I haven’t. But we are on the right trail.” Sherlock checked his watch in anticipation. “We will be there shortly.”

As the train smoothly traveled on, John shifted in his seat and watched the landscape roll by. A conversation he had had with Mary the night before replayed in his mind.

“You’ve gotten quite good at counseling people,” she said after a lingering kiss. “The courses you took to be better equipped to help veterans returning from Afghanistan can help you talk to Sherlock.”

 John brushed his fingers across her rose-hued cheek. “He’ll see right through it.”

“Give it a shot.” Mary’s hand traveled south so quickly the good doctor yelped in surprise. “Let’s put it this way: The sooner your best friend gets back on track, the sooner you can come home to me.”

Flushing at the thought of what happened next, John cleared his throat loudly. “So, Sherlock. I have a question about your addiction—”

“Not again,” Sherlock responded shortly.

“Not about rehab. I have a question about when you got on drugs the first time. Why did you start?”

“Why do you want to know?” The detective eyed him suspiciously.

“Humor me.” John’s pleasant smile couldn’t disguise his seriousness. “I have given up sleeping with the most beautiful woman in the world to stay with you. I’m not taking ‘no’ for an answer.”

Sherlock acquiesced. “I was bored. I hadn’t begun my career as a consulting detective and I needed to occupy my mind. Call it a youthful indiscretion.”

“And you stopped all by yourself?”

“Yes,” he replied. “Although I did have some incentive. I had brought the solution to a case to Scotland Yard’s attention. The DI I met with dismissed me out of hand. But Lestrade, who was a DS at the time, saw I was right. He promised to let me work on cases if I got clean. So I did.”

John mulled this new information over. “Before you got hooked this time, you had a great career, a woman to love and who loves you, a wonderful best friend.”

Sherlock chortled softly. “And you say I’m not modest.”

“Don’t you want to have that all back?”

“I know what you’re doing, by the way.” Sherlock looked out the window wistfully. “And of course I do.”

“Then why won’t you do whatever is necessary?” John exclaimed. “I really want to know, Sherlock. You nearly died of hypothermia, you had a severe tib-fib break that still causes pain, and on top of that, you caught pneumonia. You had a dozen drugs pumping through your system. Why, any one of those three conditions would certainly tempt an ordinary man to escape through . . . ”

Like so many times when Sherlock laid out the facts of a case, when John heard himself state everything out loud, the answer was incredibly obvious.

“That’s it, isn’t it?” John’s mouth fell open. “You were an _ordinary_ man. You were fallible, just like the rest of us. Is that the big, bad truth you don’t want to have come out in rehab?”

When Sherlock said nothing, John had to fight the urge to alternately throttle and hug his friend. “You don’t want to face the fact that you are as human as me or Greg or Mary. Guess what? We all know you are human. You made bad choice. A human choice.”

“And I couldn’t overcome it.” Sherlock’s controlled anger threatened to explode. “My body’s weaknesses were stronger than my intellectual power.”

"You see your body’s weaknesses, as you put it, as a character flaw and your intellect as your one saving grace." John leaned back and let out a big sigh. “You can come back from this. You are brave enough to face this.”

A myriad of open emotions crossed Sherlock’s expressive face, the main one fear. “Molly is better off without me.”

“Oh stop feeling sorry for yourself.” John crossed his arms across his chest.

Now it was Sherlock’s turn to be baffled. “I’m not.”

“One of the reasons you like me is that I tell you the truth, whether it be praising your abilities or telling you that you’re an idiot.” John jabbed a finger at him. “So let me tell you the truth now: You have to man up and get your act together or you will lose Molly.”

John let the implication of his statement sink in.

“You said she still loves me,” Sherlock finally said.

“She does. But that doesn’t mean she is going to stay with you. And Mary has told me there is a man at St. Bart’s who is showing a strong interest in her.”

The corner of Sherlock’s mouth twitched. “Who?”

“His name is A. J. I met him at Molly’s reception. He’s an older man, very wealthy.”

“Molly doesn’t care about money,” Sherlock muttered.

“Still. He is interested in her.”

The train started to slow as it approached Dartmouth. Like a switch Sherlock’s demeanor changed. Emotions shut down; he was all business.

“This is all a moot point unless I can disprove the murder accusation that I face,” he said solemnly. “The town we are going to is a few miles south. Let’s go to work.”


	12. Progress

The Beachfront Inn wasn’t true to its name. Located a mile from the nearest shore in a copse of trees, it was set back so far from the main road on a curvy, blink-and-you-miss-it drive, someone unfamiliar with the area would never suspect the two-story hotel was there. The main building had a Victorian charm, but on closer inspection it was in need of repair. The large porch had cracked boards and the pale blue paint and white trim were peeling off in small strips, coloring the surrounding shrubbery like confetti.

The restaurant across the parking lot looked too modern with its sharp angles to fit in with the Old World surroundings, but apparently it was popular. A large group of patrons wearing their best country casual spilled onto the hotel’s front lawn following a retirement luncheon. Because of the unusually warm weather, it was nice enough to have the dessert served outdoors as planned. Soon a large cake boasting “Good Luck, Larry” was wheeled out and waiters clad in black trousers and white shirts started serving.

From her vantage point behind the lace curtains of her second floor corner room, Ruby Danley took a long drag on her cigarette and watched the crowd mill about. She had hoped to go for a walk to clear her mind, but now she didn’t want to chance it. Everyone looked ordinary enough, but the two men near the gazebo? They didn’t fit in. The shorter one had accepted a piece of cake and made small talk with a few of the partygoers, but his yellow shirt and jeans stood out in the sea of polo shirts and khakis.

However, it was the tall man Ruby couldn’t look away from. Striking a pose as if he were in a photo shoot, he wore a suit she was sure had been in the previous autumn’s Armani collection. His focus wasn’t on Larry and friends but on the front of the hotel. Still, the pair didn’t look what she would call menacing.

A soft knock at her door caused Ruby to jump.

“Miss Danley?”

She exhaled with a little laugh. It was Peter, the ginger desk clerk who had an obvious crush on her. She hadn’t even considered registering under a false name; she had been there often enough that the small staff knew her by name. She had first come to the inn with a boyfriend (John? Paul? It was one of the Beatles’ names). Long after said boyfriend had left her life, she returned every so often to the Beachfront to get away from the city.

But this time it was different. She had fled in fear and didn’t have a clue how she would ever get back to her life. It wasn’t fair.

Another soft knock at the door. She pushed her ample breasts up so the tops were plainly visible in her V-neck T-shirt. The girls had served her well over the years, getting men to do what she wanted. Men were such silly things. With a few bats of her eyes, she had Peter bringing her the morning newspaper and tea, even though she hadn’t asked for it. Evan Kincaid had been no different. She couldn’t stand him, but he had gotten her out of the barista job.

 _Not that that has worked out well_ , she mused.

She swung the door open. Right on cue, the young man gaped openly at her chest. Just like Kincaid had every day in the office. And like Kincaid, Peter would never get the chance to do more than look.

“Hi, Pete.” Ruby reached for an ashtray and snuffed out her fag.

“I meant to bring this up to you sooner, but the front desk got busy. Here.” Flustered, he thrust a note at her. “The man said to give it to you.”

Ruby stared at the hotel stationery in his hand as if it were a coiled snake. “What man? You didn’t tell anyone I was here, did you? You promised!”

“No, no, no!” Peter put his hand on her arm to reassure her, but that only made her retreat into her room. “The man asked if you were registered and I said I couldn’t give out information on guests. So he said if you were here to give you this note and that he’d be on the front lawn waiting. I would never tell anyone you were here after you told me not to, I swear!”

She slowly took the note from him. “Thanks.”

“No problem, Miss Danley. Let me know if I can do anything—”

Closing the door in his face, she walked stiffly back into her room and sat on the bed. A cold pit formed in her stomach as she unfolded the paper. It was all over. She had been discovered. In a bold hand the letters danced across the page before finally forming words.

“I know you broke the code. I’ll be waiting by the gazebo with my associate. I am your only hope of getting out of this situation safely.”

It was signed Sherlock Holmes.

“I’ll be damned,” she muttered.

~s~s~s~s~s~

Sherlock watched the hotel’s entrance. A steady stream of people (six men, four women, two teens, seven children, and one infant) had come in and out, but none of them matched Ruby Danley’s description.

“Are we going to stake out this place day and night?” John put a forkful of cake in his mouth.

The detective pulled out his mobile and read the incoming text. A triumphant smile spread across his face. “The pieces of the puzzle are falling together.”

“What did you say? Have you solved it?” John asked eagerly.

“Not yet.”

A light breeze stirred the newly leafed out trees. John peered toward the back of the inn to what promised to be a large garden.

“This is a restful place, I’ll give her that. And it’s out of the way—a good hiding place. But how can she afford to stay here all this time?”

Sherlock turned sharply. “What do you mean?”

“Lestrade checked her credit cards and her bank statement, remember? Nothing had been touched since she disappeared. So, if she’s here, she’s paying cash.”

The detective let out a deep laugh, the first true one John had heard since Sherlock had left jail. “You may not solve the cases, but your insights are invaluable!”

“Pardon?” John wiped his mouth with a napkin and handed his plate to a server. “Sherlock, look! There she is!”

Ruby’s dirty blonde hair was pulled into a ponytail that was threaded through the back of a black Nike cap, which was pulled low over her forehead. Large sunglasses covered most of her face. She stopped a few feet from the pair.

“Let’s go to The Gables,” Sherlock suggested.

She nodded curtly and silently led the way.

~s~s~s~s~s~

“Sherlock  . . . Holmes? You were arrested for Mr. Kincaid’s murder!” Ruby’s voice had a whiney quality John associated with the guests on the crap telly shows he used to watch with Mrs. Hudson.

“A most unjust accusation, as you more than anyone knows,” Sherlock snapped as he slid into the floral booth furthest from the door.

 Ruby hesitated then sat opposite him. “How did you find me?”

“I’m a detective,” Sherlock said condescendingly. “It’s what I do.”

“And who are you?” Ruby took off her sunglasses to stare at John. She had an average face that looked as if giant fingers had pinched her eyes, nose, and mouth a little too close together.

“My name is Dr. John Watson. I spoke with your aunt Missy. She is very worried about you.”

Ruby’s bravado wavered. “She can’t know where I am. It’s too dangerous.”

When the waitress came over, Sherlock ordered coffee all around so she would leave quickly.

Ruby folded her hands on the table. “How do you know I broke the code? How did you even know there was a bloody code?”

“I know everything except who and how much. Tell me and I can protect you,” Sherlock said.

Ruby took a paper napkin from the dispenser and began to tear it into shreds. “I don’t know the name of the head bloke. I do know he’s dangerous. The only name I know is Rusk. And his enforcer is ruthless. They will kill me if they find me.”

“Then you had better tell me everything from the beginning,” said Sherlock. “I know Kincaid owned the auto parts store in Liverpool. I received a text today confirming that and the fact he owned a bakery in Kimpton. That’s where you picked up most of your envelopes, right?”

“Yes.”

“How long did it take you to figure out you were dealing with cash?”

“It was Jackson who told me.”

“Jackson? He would be your contact. The person you picked up from and delivered to, right?”

She nodded.

“You became friends. Confidants.” Sherlock’s eyebrows shot up. “Lovers?”

“Nothing wrong with that, is there?” Her dark brown eyes were flinty. “We would talk sometimes during the exchanges. It led to other things. Jackie is a lovely lad. It’s been killing me not to be in touch with him this whole time. I am so worried about him.”

She pulled out another napkin and began to tear it, too.

“Did he tell you he thought there was cash in the envelopes?”

“But Jackie didn’t know who the big players were. He only knew his boss’ name—Rusk. He said the guy working for Rusk was a mean one. Someone Jackie would never cross.”

“And in English we say . . .” blurted out a frustrated John, tired of being left out of the conversation, which ground to a halt while the waitress served their coffee.

After the woman left, Sherlock quickly explained. “Ruby did these ‘errands’ for Kincaid. As she has said, she and her contact, Jackson, struck up a relationship.”

“I was sitting here the whole time, Sherlock. I got that part.”

“This organization is typical of most well-run criminal enterprises. No one knows the other people’s names—just their immediate contact. That way if they are caught, they can’t reveal the whole operation.”

“And what type of operation is it?" John furrowed his brow.

Sherlock looked genuinely surprised. “Drugs, of course.”

“Everything is drugs these days,” John said quietly.

Ignoring him, Sherlock continued. “Kincaid laundered money through his front businesses. His downfall was his code.”

“That bloody code.” Ruby angrily balled up what was left of the napkin and tossed it to the side.

“You didn’t like doing those ‘errands’ until one one day sitting at work you figured out the code,” Sherlock said.

“The flags on the wall in the office,” she agreed.

Sherlock’s silence encouraged Ruby to keep talking. “Jackie and I worked it all out. I bought the same kind of envelopes at the business supply store. When we got an envelope, I would read the info in the code. The amount was always there. Then we’d take a little out—never too much. Never enough to be missed. Then I’d redo the colored boxes on a new envelope. We would split the money we took 50-50. It was going great. We even were planning a vacation for the summer. I guess that’s out of the question now.” She looked off into the distance.

“You were playing a very dangerous game,” John said.

Ruby shrugged. “It would have been fine. Then I made a mistake a couple of weeks ago.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Your dyslexia.”

“I transposed two numbers.” She winced.

“You got the numbers mixed up and the code you wrote said the amount in the envelope should have been much higher than what was actually there. How much were you off, Ruby?”

“200,000,” she whispered.

John whistled low and long. “That caught someone’s attention.”

“They thought it was Mr. Kincaid that pocketed the money. He had no idea what was going on. Poor sod.” She casually took a sip of coffee.

John made a disgusted noise. “You don’t even care that he was murdered? And that the police arrested Sherlock?”

“It was his fault for getting me involved in the first place, isn’t it?” she said angrily. “They figured out it was me right after they killed him. They got my number somehow and sent a text telling me to return the money. I ran.”

“How do you think they got your number?” Sherlock watched her reaction carefully.

“I just said I have no idea, didn’t I?” she retorted, ugly red blotches coloring her décolletage and neck.

Sherlock filed that fact away. “Has Rusk been in touch recently?”

“He texts constantly. I never reply, never. He says he has to get his money back or I am dead.”

"Rusk must not suspect Jackson was involved at all," Sherlock surmised.

“Why did you keep your mobile?” John suddenly asked. “It seems to me that if you wanted to disappear, you’d chuck it and pick up a burner phone.”

When Ruby remained silent, Sherlock spoke up. “Because Jackson would have no way to reach her. Does he know where you are?”

"He's left messages, but I'm not chancing putting him in any more danger." She averted her eyes. “I don’t know what to do, Mr. Holmes. The money Jackie and I took—it weren’t nowhere near 200,000. They are going to kill me.”

Sherlock sounded almost as commanding as his old self. “Come back to London, Ms. Danley. As long as you do exactly what I say, you will be safe.”

~s~s~s~s~s~

“And now they are on their way back with Ruby Danley.” Mary excitedly scrolled through her texts. “John said the train is just departing.”

“Ruby is the missing secretary who knows something about Mr. Kincaid’s murder.” Molly looked to her friend for confirmation. Mary had just explained all the details about the case as she knew them to Molly and Mrs. Hudson over tea, and Molly wasn’t sure she had the facts correct.

Mary nodded. “She will lead them to the killer and Sherlock will be cleared.”

Molly topped off everyone’s cup as the three women sat in Sherlock’s kitchen like it was their regular haunt.

“And where will this Ruby be sleeping?” Mrs. Hudson asked, surveying Sherlock’s sitting room.

“I’m sure John will give up his room for her. He’ll probably sleep on the couch,” Mary replied.

Molly took a sip of tea and fiddled with the cup. She had told Mary that she didn’t feel right coming back to Baker Street after running into Sherlock the evening before, but Mary had assured her that John and Sherlock were out of town.

“Honestly, I feel as if I am over here as much as I am at home,” Mary complained. “The sooner we get the charges dropped, the sooner Sherlock can go to a proper rehab and I can have my husband back.”

“I don’t think he’ll go,” Mrs. Hudson piped up. “I know that boy, and he has a stubborn streak a mile long. When my former husband ran his ‘business,’ he often had clients that would never give the stuff up.”

“I hate drugs,” Molly declared vehemently. “They are at the root cause of almost every evil in this city.”

Surprised at her outburst, Mrs. Hudson’s hands fluttered at her neckline like two anxious birds. “I agree, my dear. I only did the typing, but I knew what Mr. Hudson was up to. It was very bad indeed. That is why I divorced him.”

“Is someone coming?” Molly gasped, hearing the stairs creak. “It can’t be Sherlock!”

“It’s just me, Dr. Molly.” Billy Wiggins slowly walked up the last few steps, his face still bruised and battered from his beating.

“Young man, I told you not to come here ever again!” Mrs. Hudson was on her feet.

“I don’t mean to cause no trouble, ma’am.” He shied away from the older woman. “I just wanted to let Shezza know that I am done with the life. It’s over. I ain’t doing drugs or selling drugs no more.”

The tension in the room dissipated slightly, and Molly helped Wiggins lower himself onto the couch.

“How are you?” Molly surveyed his injuries.

“A bit better. My ribs are still sore.”

“They will be for some time still,” Molly said.

Mary handed Wiggins a cup of tea. “Sherlock and John aren’t here right now, but we can let them know you came by.”

“That’s good, Mrs. Watson. Thank you.” He slurped his tea loudly. “John told me to ask you, Dr. Molly, if there might be some work down at St. Barts? I could wheel the dead bodies around for you. I’m not afraid of dead bodies.”

Molly suppressed a grin. “Why don’t you come around tomorrow? My shift ends at 2 o’clock, I can go with you to the human resources department and put in a good word.”

Wiggins’ whole face brightened. “You’d do that for me? Thank you, Dr. Molly!”

“It’s a good thing you’re straightening up your life, Billy,” Mary said with a smile. “It’s too dangerous to keep doing what you were doing.”

“Don’t I know it! This new dealer moving in, he’s a bad one. He didn’t beat me up, but his enforcer did. That bloke seemed to enjoy hurting me.”

“Why don’t you go to Inspector Lestrade and fill him in?” Molly urged.

Wiggins shook his head violently. “No way. That crew would kill me by the end of the week if I did that. No, Dr. Molly, I learned my lesson. Stay out of Rusk’s way.”


	13. Meetings

Sherlock lay in bed, willing himself to stay still. His mind was like a wheel: When it was rolling, it was fine. When it stopped, it fell over. No longer occupied with the mystery elements of the case, the need for drugs that had whispered to him all day had become an urgent demand. It was pointless to think about sneaking out of the flat to make contact with his dealer. John was asleep on the couch, having given his bed to Ruby, making leaving by the front impossible. He wanted the drugs, but he didn’t want to be a junkie. Did he?

Rolling onto his side, he kicked off the light sheet. Sweat ran down his bare back, whether from the heat or his need for drugs, he didn’t know. If he didn’t have his intellect, Sherlock imagined he would not only give in to his baser desires, but that he would do so constantly and to the extreme. He would be Henry VIII reincarnated wanting more drink, more food, more women.

And more drugs.

Rehab. What a dull concept. Sitting with a group of hopeless youths, businessmen in existential crises, and desperate housewives telling their pedantic stories. Wallowing in their despair, sharing in their common need for drugs. He snorted in contempt.

Giving up on the idea of sleep, he walked to the window. He smacked one hand into the other. Why was his mind turning on him like this? It was one thing for his body to need the mindlessness of a hit. He understood the biology and the chemistry of it all. But it was another thing for his brain to tell him to do it. He was smarter than this.

He hitched up his blue pajama bottoms and picked up a cigarette from the dresser. John hadn’t said anything about his smoking again—the doctor had to know it was hard enough right now. But he imagined John would soon nag him to give them up and to start the physical therapy exercises again. John always had his best interests at heart.

John and Molly. His best friend and the love of his life had begged him to go to rehab. They wanted him to be well. He wanted—no, _needed_ —both of them in his life. He wanted to be well.

 _He_ wanted to be well.

It all was incredibly and suddenly obvious. Sherlock put out his cigarette. “John!”

Footfalls rushed down the hall. “For Christ’s sake, what’s wrong?”

“I . . . I need your help,” Sherlock said.

“Talk to me.” John sat on the edge of the bed as Sherlock paced. “What is it?”

“I have been thinking, um, about what you said. About rehab.” Sherlock ran his long fingers through his tousled curls. “I can’t stay sober alone.”

“No, you can’t,” John agreed. “I have some information in my suitcase about an excellent treatment center. I wouldn’t recommend it unless I thought they were the best.”

“I know, I know.” Sherlock stopped dead in his tracks. “I believe this case will be wrapped up in 24 hours. When that happens, I will go.”

“Brilliant.” Relief spread across the doctor’s face. “I’m proud of you.”

~s~s~s~s~s~

The conversation was quick and to the point.

“Mycroft, I need you to give me ₤200,000.”

“Hello, brother mine. So good to hear from you. Dare I ask why you need that large sum of money so soon after your release from jail?”

“For Ruby Danley to give a drug dealer named Rusk. Rusk and his enforcer are the ones who killed Kincaid.”

“So you found her then. That is good news.”

“When she makes the exchange, the police will arrest Rusk and you will get your money back.”

“Tell me, are you planning to go to rehab?”

“Actually I am.”

“Wait . . . you are?”

“Will you give me the money or not?”

“I don’t just have that sum lying around, you know? It will take several hours. Set up the exchange for four o’clock. And Sherlock? I . . . am very pleased to hear about your decision.”

~s~s~s~s~s~

Sherlock hated to repeat himself, but here he was, spelling out his plan to Ruby a second time. He narrowed his eyes slightly, assessing if she were stalling for time.

“Like I already said, my brother has agreed to give me the ₤200,000.”

“Why would he give it to you at all?” she asked peevishly. Wearing strappy sandals and a dark blue sundress with questionable spaghetti straps, Ruby sat on the couch while John made tea and Sherlock watched her from his chair.

She had spent most of the morning in the loo, showering then spending what Sherlock considered an inordinate amount of time doing her hair. And that was before she even started applying makeup. It made him appreciate Molly Hooper all the more. She had a natural, quiet beauty that didn’t need to be enhanced.

John handed him a cup of tea. “Sherlock? All right?”

He nodded. “Once you meet Rusk at the drop point, which we’ll have staked out, the police will arrest him. Mycroft will get his money back, charges against me will be dropped, the danger you face will be eliminated, and we’ll all be happy, happy, happy.”

“But what if they send Jackie to pick it up instead?” Ruby lit another cigarette. "Can't I call him to warn him?"

"No," Sherlock ordered. "You can't communicate with him at all."

“I don’t know.” She worried her lower lip, not endearingly like Molly but in a way that looked common and foolish.

Thoroughly exasperated, Sherlock was about to snap but John calmly held up his hand to silence his friend.

“Ms Danley—Ruby,” John began with a smile. “Have we given you any reason to doubt us? Sherlock has a very carefully thought-out plan to keep you safe. All you have to do is send a text to Rusk and meet him at the . . . the . . . where was it again?”

“The Aviary at Montieth.”

“Meet him at the aviary with the money. Tell him you will only give the money directly to him, not one of his flunkies,” John continued. “The minute he shows up, we’ll be Johnny on the spot.”

“Why are we going to some stupid bird place, anyway?” she sulked.

Sherlock stood and opened John’s laptop, which was sitting on the desk. He quickly brought up the aviary’s website to show her. “It’s a public place that has suitable places for many police officers to hide and also to be undercover posing as sightseers. I’ve texted my contact in the narco unit. They’ll help us.”

“But I’m . . . I’m like the bait, aren’t I?”

“Yes,” Sherlock said simply. “It’s necessary, but there is no reason to be concerned.”

Ruby thought about that for a moment. “What’s to stop Rusk from shooting me dead where I stand?”

“I won’t let that happen.”

All three turned their heads in unison. In the doorway stood a heavyset man with fine blond hair that resembled a chick’s fluff. He had his hand on his hip revealing a revolver in an unbuckled holster on his belt.

“Who the hell are you?” John demanded.

“Observe, John. Look at his suit and tie,” Sherlock said. “He is obviously a low-paid government worker.”

“I’m Rick Dodge, National Crimes Agency.” He flashed his credentials. “I’ve been looking for you for quite a while, Ms. Danley.”

“Me? I haven’t done anything wrong,” she said defensively.

“He’s the cop who searched her flat,” John whispered.

“Obviously,” said Sherlock angrily. “And how exactly did you know she was here?”

“I have my sources.”

“Ah. Sources.” Sherlock curled his lip.

“Let me explain. Ms. Danley, I need you to lead us to Jim Rusk and Sid Lehrman so we can take down this whole operation.”

“I don’t know a Sid Lehrmann,” she stammered.

“He works for Rusk. Does his enforcing work.”

A shadow of fear crossed her face. “If you know all about Rusk, what do you need me for?”

“We know he is a dealer, but we’re not after him. We want the big fish in this case.”

“What exactly is your case?” Sherlock asked. 

Feeling more comfortable, Dodge walked in and sat next to Ruby. “One of the biggest international drug smuggling rings this country has ever seen. We believe their latest haul was more than 390 kilos.”

“That’s a lot of drugs,” she exclaimed. “And a lot of money.”

Dodge glanced from Sherlock to John. “We have to stop them. Our informant told us they are planning to unleash a mixture of heroin and cocaine on the street called ‘beast.’”

John and Sherlock exchanged a look at the word "beast."

“This informant. Why don’t you use him or her to bring Rusk down?” John offered the agent a cup of tea.

“Because he’s dead,” Sherlock stated.

“Yes,” Dodge admitted. “Evan Kincaid is dead.”

“That prat was working both sides? Well, you just never know about people.” Ruby fanned herself with a fashion magazine she had bought at the train station.

Dodge watched her movements appreciatively. “Kincaid was collecting information, but he was holding out on me. Trying to play different angles but wasn’t smart enough to do it right.”

Ruby clicked her tongue. “That sounds like him.” 

“We’ll need you to testify,” Dodge said earnestly. “Mr. Holmes’ plan is spot on. I will have my team there, too. You will be perfectly safe.”

“Steady on! I never agreed to none of this!” Ruby rummaged through her purse. “I’m out of fags. Do they have a vending machine at that sandwich shop below?”

“I think so,” said John

“I’ll be back. Don’t worry, Mr. Holmes, I’m not doing a runner. I want my life back. All of it.” With a flip of her long, blonde curls, Ruby walked mincingly down the stairs.

The three men stared at one another until Dodge grinned knowingly.

“Wow, is she stacked!”

“God help us.” With a roll of his eyes, John walked back to the kitchen.

Sherlock watched as Dodge finished his tea in a few gulps. He was sloppy in appearance and that didn’t bode well for how he worked. Bringing down this drug ring would bring him the attention he obviously desired. But it was also clear he had needed Sherlock’s help to track down Ruby Danley.

“I have a few questions for you,” Sherlock intoned deeply. “About your relationship with my brother.”

~s~s~s~s~s~

At Speedy’s Ruby ordered a turkey sandwich, a soda, and placed the first call to Jackson that she had made in weeks.

“Ruby? Where the hell are you?”

“I’m OK, Jackie. Everything is OK now.”

“Why didn’t you return my calls?”

“I couldn’t. Now listen. There’s this bloke—Sherman or Sherlock—and he is helping me.”

“What?” Jackson almost shrieked. “You told someone?”

“He already knew. It’s a long story; I’ll tell you later. Right now I need you to come over to 221 B Baker Street. Sherlock is going to get the ₤200,000 for me to give to Rusk. But instead you and I will take the money and leave town.”

“Ruby, you need to come with me,” Jackson insisted.

“I want to be with you, too, baby. We’ll get out of London together.”

“No, we can’t,” he replied angrily. “You don’t know Rusk. And Sid—his nickname is Sid Vicious for a reason!”

Ruby looked over her shoulder to make sure no one was eavesdropping. “Jackie, just come here now, OK? I’ve got this all worked out.”

~s~s~s~s~s~

“Ruby has been gone a long time, hasn’t she?” Dodge said nervously, sending another text.

Sherlock grunted, tuning his violin.

“I’m here, don’t worry.” Ruby walked in pulling a tall young man with dark blond hair and piercing blue eyes.

“Everyone, this is Jackson. Jackson, this is everyone.”

“I told you not to contact him,” Sherlock growled.

“It’s just Jackie. He’s here to help with the plan. He knows Rusk and Sid.” She glanced around the room. “Has the money been delivered yet?”

“What is this plan you have?” Jackson looked like he had a sour stomach.

After Sherlock was done explaining, the young man shook his head. “No, Ruby, this won’t work.”

“Jackson, I need to talk to you about Rusk,” Dodge said eagerly.

Ignoring him, Jackson whirled Ruby around to face him. “Ruby, come home with me. We’ll sort it out. This way is too dangerous."

"Don't listen to him, Ruby," Sherlock warned.

"Don’t you get it, baby? Sid will kill us and have fun doing it.”

“No, Jackson.” Her voice went up an octave. “The _money_ will be here soon. Like I told you. Then we’ll go through with _our_ plan.”

Dodge said excitedly, “So you agree to do it? Send the text now.”

“Here is exactly what to say. Four o'clock sharp.” Sherlock handed her a piece of paper.

“No!” Jackson pulled her toward the door. “You aren’t doing this.”

“Yes, I am!” she argued.

“Don’t be a fool!” he shouted, wrenching her arm. John jumped to his feet, but it was Dodge who pinned Jackson to the doorjamb with his forearm under his chin.

“Let him go!” Ruby cried.

“Ruby, think for a minute,” Sherlock said rapidly. “The only reason Rusk ever had your number is that Jackson gave it to him. You were never part of their organization so they wouldn’t have your mobile. Jackson is deathly afraid of Rusk and Sid, so he offered you up on a silver platter so they wouldn’t think he was connected to the missing money.”

“You unbelievable bastard!” Ruby screamed at Jackson and grabbed her mobile.

Jackson struggled. “Don’t do it!”

Ruby finished typing in the text and triumphantly pushed send.

That’s when it happened. Everything moved simultaneously in slow motion and at lightening speed. Jackson kicked Dodge’s kneecap hard. Crying out in pain, Dodge crumpled, releasing his hold. Jackson seized Dodge’s gun and took aim. In a blur, John rushed past Sherlock and pushed Ruby as hard as he could.

When the shot rang out, two people fell.


	14. Choices

Shifting from one foot to the other, Molly was acutely aware that her cheeks glowed as red as the cherries on her cardigan. Twisting her fingers, she sensed Greg Lestrade grinning behind her as A. J. rambled on about something to do with the navy.

She hadn't seen A. J. since that day in the canteen, but when she went to human resources with Wiggins, she had bumped into him and he followed her back to the morgue. She was all prepared to have an uncomfortable conversation with him about their friendship, but Lestrade had chosen that moment to walk in. The man wasn't a detective inspector for nothing—within a minute it showed on his face that he had pieced together that A. J. liked Molly. Lestrade had looked amused at her predicament.

It was a good thing neither he nor A. J. could read her thoughts at the moment.

Finally, at her third "Well, I'd better be getting back to it," Lestrade came to her rescue. "Dr. Hooper? I need to see Mrs. Robertson's body."

"Sorry, A. J. Work is calling." Molly forced a smile.

"Of course. And look at the time—I almost forgot I have an appointment. Good day." He looked vaguely disappointed as he left through the double doors.

Molly dropped her face into hands and let out a frustrated shriek. 

"That bloke was chatting you up!" Lestrade's expressive dark brown eyes twinkled. "If only Sherlock were here to see this! He'd be green."

She wanted to tell him her boyfriend of the last few years probably wouldn't notice if Prince Harry were to drop on bended knee before her, but she thought better of it.

"I've told A. J. I'm not interested, but he doesn't seem to get it," she said instead.

"Some blokes need to be hit on the head with a club to get that no means no." Lestrade grew serious. "Do you want me to have a chat with him?"

Molly tried to picture Lestrade warning A. J. to keep his distance. "No! Thanks, I'll take care of it. Now which body did you need? My shift is over, but Lori can help you."

"Lori's here?" He perked up like he always did when the bubbly lab assistant was around.

Molly grinned. "I'll go get her."

"Hey, Molly." Lestrade put a friendly hand on her shoulder. "I just wanted you to know that even though I haven't come up with any evidence to clear Sherlock, I haven't given up on the case. Or on him."

Knowing Sherlock would never comprehend the depth of his friend's loyalty, Molly unexpectedly felt emotional.

"You are a great friend to him. He's too much of a lunkhead to notice."

"I'm hopeful this time that he'll stay clean, I really am." Lestrade threw a kind smile her direction. "You just hang in there."

When his mobile ringtone started to play "Old Time Rock and Roll," Molly excused herself to go, but he motioned for her to come back.

"Donovan? Slow down. Say that again."

Maybe it was the way his face went ashen or how his knuckles turned white as he gripped the end of the counter, but everything about Lestrade's demeanor made Molly's heart sink.

"What's wrong?"

He swallowed. "There's been a shooting at Baker Street."

~s~s~s~s~s~

 _They will never get that stain out of the couch_.

Mary Morstan felt a magnetic pull to keep looking into the sitting room. It was the same urge she had when passing a car accident—the irresistible impulse to stare at someone else's misfortune and count her lucky stars. But this time the misfortune wasn't happening to a stranger.

The coppery scent of blood filled the air. Red splattered the couch and pooled on the floor. The pristine room was cluttered with supplies and trash the paramedics now began to gather. They had put up a valiant fight for life, but ultimately it was a hopeless one. She watched numbly from the kitchen as an attendant stepped in some blood and smeared it under his heel as he wheeled out a black body bag on a gurney. She felt sick to her stomach.

Flipping over a new page in her notebook, Sally Donovan stood by the window taking notes. "Freak, you had better explain this to me and explain it to me good."

"It's simple." In his chair, Sherlock stared darkly in front of him. "This idiot"—he pointed to Jackson, who was handcuffed and being led out the door by an officer—"grabbed that idiot's gun."

He made a rude gesture at Dodge who was bookended by two of his team members who had just arrived.

"He shot idiot No. 3, who decided to play hero." Sherlock shifted his glare to John, who sat next to Mary at the table. "He was pushing the victim out of the way to save her life. He failed, obviously."

Still furious over the thoughtless text Sherlock had sent her—"John shot at Baker Street. Come at once"—Mary snapped.

"Shut up, Sherlock. Just shut the hell up. I told you to keep him in one piece."

"How is this my fault?" he asked, surprised. "If Dodge had secured his weapon properly, Jackson would never have been able to grab it."

"Oi! Just one minute!" Dodge shouted.

"It's true," John began.

Mary angrily cut him off. "And you! You stupid, beautiful man. What were you thinking? Did you even think of me and how devastated I would be if you had been killed?"

"I didn't have time to think. I just reacted," he said truthfully.

The initial rush of adrenaline spent, Mary was exhausted. An inner shakiness started in the center of her chest and spread outward. To conceal her trembling, she clutched John's arm tightly as a paramedic finished bandaging his other one. A no-nonsense woman, the medic had worked efficiently and silently, but as the tears spilled down Mary's cheeks, she spoke up with a thick Scottish accent.

"Don't worry," she said. "It's a through-and-through wound."

"How could one shot go through John's arm and end up in that poor girl?" Once again Mary looked into the sitting room at the debris and blood.

"Your husband got the better end of the deal, that's for sure," the woman replied.

"Mary, I'm fine," John repeated for the third time. "It's a bit sore, that's all."

A fine sheen of sweat on his forehead was the only outward sign of distress he allowed, but he couldn't control the pain that lined his face. He hid the shock and fear he must have felt. Mary knew the only place he would reveal them to her would be the privacy of their bedroom—if then—but for now he was focused on reassuring her.

 _The least I can do is show him I'm OK_ , she thought.

"You're right." She smiled. "I guess it isn't that bad. It only went through the fleshy part of your arm."

"Fleshy? My arms are pure muscle." John rested his forehead against hers. "Have you seen them? Very impressive."

She closed her eyes and nearly wept with relief as his lips found hers.

"If the Watsons can finish snogging, we have work to do!" Sherlock shouted.

"We?" Mary pushed away from her husband. "If you think John is going anywhere with you, you are demented."

"Temper, Mary." Sherlock stood and directed his question to the medic. "Is he all right?"

She shrugged. "He refuses to go to A & E, but he'll live."

Fed up with being ignored, Donovan walked over to Sherlock until she stood an inch away from his face. "Why was that woman shot? Who was she? What is going on?"

"That's what I want to know."

Lestrade grimly stood in the doorway, surveying the bloody crime scene. Before anyone could speak, Molly flew in the room as if she had been propelled from a catapult. Donovan barely had time to get out of the way before Molly rushed straight into Sherlock's arms. They clung together as he slowly rocked her back and forth, murmuring soft, meaningless words into her hair.

"I was so afraid," she finally managed.

He looked at her tenderly. "I'm fine."

Molly reached up and kissed him long, slow, and deliberately.

"Sherlock! John!" Mrs. Hudson ran up the stairs at a pace she hadn't managed in years. "I go to the shops for an hour and the police and the paramedics come? You've only been out of jail a few days, Sherlock! What happened?"

"That's what I want to know. Now!" roared Lestrade, whose patience was gone.

"Excuse me." A well-dressed man in a pinstripe suit carrying an attaché case scooted around Mrs. Hudson. "I have a delivery from Mycroft Holmes."

Mary lay her head on John's shoulder as everyone talked at the same time. "I think some days we should just turn on circus music."

It was good to hear her husband chuckle.

~s~s~s~s~s~

In less than 10 minutes Sherlock had brought everyone up to date.

"Hold on a minute." Lestrade sent Dodge a quizzical look. "How did you know to come here? Who told you Ruby was here?"

Sherlock shoved a kitchen chair in with a bang. "My brother Mycroft. I asked for his help with the money and he called Dodge. The two of them are very cozy."

All eyes went to Dodge, who puffed out his chest. "Mr. Holmes understood it was for the good of the country to successfully bring my case to a close. He agreed to let me know when Sherlock had tracked down Ruby."

"Guv, the SOCO unit is downstairs. Can Anderson get started?" Donovan called from downstairs.

"Yeah, send them up!"

"Good heavens, are they wearing lead boots? My poor stairs!" Mrs. Hudson fluttered out.

"Donovan," Lestrade shouted. "Check that number Ruby texted."

"No point. It will be a prepaid mobile," Sherlock predicted. "But now we are faced with an immediate dilemma: We need a blonde officer to pose as Ruby to make the exchange very shortly. Her death is extremely inconvenient."

"Yeah, I'll be sure to let her aunt know you send your condolences," John said in disgust.

"Julie Crain can do it," Dodge piped up. "She's an experienced member on my team. We'll get her outfitted."

"Good, good." Sherlock rubbed his hands together.

"We need to get over to the aviary and connect with the narcotics division," Lestrade declared. "We don't have a lot of time."

"I'll send Riegel to help you set up the perimeter and get the tourists out." Dodge signaled the younger of his two men to go with Lestrade. "But I need my weapon back."

"No can do, mate." Lestrade shook his head.

"Bringing down this drug ring takes precedence over an open-and-shut homicide." Dodge bristled.

"I'm not getting into a pissing contest with you, Dodge. Your service revolver was used in the commission of a crime. That makes it evidence, which makes it mine. Sherlock, John—are you coming?" Lestrade bounded down the stairs.

Glowering, Dodge pulled out his mobile. "Riegel, go with him. McKenna, start tracking down a long, blonde wig. I'm going to call Crain and have her meet us."

As the agent lumbered out of the room, Sherlock quickly pulled Molly to him. "I have a lot to tell you after this is over. All you need to know right now is that I am going to rehab."

With a squeak of excitement, she threw her arms around his neck. "You are?"

"Yes. I want to be well." He shifted her to the side so that he could gaze in her eyes.

"We have a lot to sort out," she cautioned him.

"I want to. I want to make everything up to you. Will you let me?"

"Of course."

He planted a gentle kiss on her forehead. "John! Let's go!"

John looked at Mary hopefully. She knew him too well. _You're a fool_ , her better judgment chanted in the back of her mind. She shoved it away.

"Molly, how about a cuppa?" she asked, her heart thudding. "My stomach is doing flip-flops because my dearly beloved—who has been shot, I might add—is about to rush out to catch a drug-dealing murderer."

John called over his shoulder, "I love you!"

The flat was anything but silent as the SOCO team moved about under Anderson's direction, Donovan spoke loudly into her mobile, and Dodge's voice echoed from Sherlock's room where he talked to McKenna. But with John, Sherlock, and Lestrade gone, Baker Street felt empty.

"I can't imagine how stressful all of this has been for you. It was bad enough just knowing there had been a shooting here, but to have John actually hit?" Molly shuddered.

"I have had better days."

Mary had an unexpected sense of dread as she filled the kettle and set out two cups. She gave her head a good shake, but the feeling persisted.

 _Your husband has just been shot. He is doing something dangerous. Of course you feel uneasy_ , she told herself.

Dodge reappeared, desperation clinging to him like the scent of a wet dog.

"Unbelievable! I can't raise Crain on her mobile. I forgot today is her day off. Thompson is available, but she can't pose as Ruby—she's black."

"Shall I call DI Lestrade, sir? Maybe he's got someone on his squad who fits the bill," offered McKenna.

"That egotistical sod?" Dodge scoffed. "This is _my_ case."

Mary and Molly exchanged a worried look as he paced back and forth like a metronome, muttering to himself.

"If a blonde doesn't show up at the aviary with this cash at four o'clock, Rusk will slip through my fingers—again."

Turning quickly, he focused his attention on her like a spotlight. A peculiar glint in his eyes raised all kinds of warning flags for Mary.

"What do you want?"

"You're a blonde," he stated.

"So what?" She exhaled, the heaviness of the day weighing on her.

"She's too tall, sir," said McKenna.

Grunting in agreement, Dodge turned to the other woman in the room. "Dr. Hooper, if you pose as Ruby, you will get your boyfriend off the hook."

"Me?" Molly gasped.

"Sod off," Mary said angrily.

Undeterred, Dodge pulled up a chair. "Don't you care about Sherlock?"

"Of course I do!" Molly cried.

"I can make sure he goes free."

"How?" Mary asked.

"After Dr. Hooper's reception, Kincaid got a call on his office phone from Rusk, asking to meet that night. He called me straight away; he was worried because Rusk never met him on the spur of the moment. I told him I'd send someone to the location. Unfortunately, the agent that was dispatched was a rookie. He was unfamiliar with that part of town and ran late, but from a distance he saw Kincaid go down the alley and two men follow after him. Then he saw Sherlock running out of the flophouse."

"Why didn't he come forward when Sherlock was arrested?" Molly demanded.

"I told him not to. Ruby had gone missing. I needed her to get the goods on Rusk, so I told Mycroft Holmes I had proof his brother was innocent and would reveal it as soon as Sherlock found Ruby for me." Like a feral cat looking at its prey, Dodge stared at Molly. "If you do this one little thing, I will make sure this agent gives a statement."

Mary decided at that moment that she hated Rick Dodge. "You manipulative bastard."

Ignoring her, he spoke low and fast. "Don't you see? These are Evan Kincaid's killers. They also are pouring poison onto our streets and crippling our society. We have to stop them. Once we have them in custody, all charges against Sherlock will be dropped. So, what do you say, Dr. Hooper? Wouldn't you do anything to keep him from going to prison for life?"

Molly slowly raised her eyes to meet his.

"What is it you need me to do?"

 


	15. Aviary

Molly Hooper was an intelligent woman whose kind heart often encouraged unscrupulous shopkeepers, telephone solicitors, and consulting detectives to take advantage of her. It wasn’t that she was weak or dumb; she was simply, inherently nice. Dodge must have recognized this quality—and Molly’s obvious affection for Sherlock—and was playing up both to his advantage. Sitting at Sherlock’s bare kitchen table, he leaned in as if he were questioning a suspect.

“All you have to do is drop off the money. You will be perfectly safe.”

The pathologist stared mutely at her hands, her expression blank. Mary, on the other hand, was seething. She stood not moving a muscle, sensing Molly’s inner struggle and not wanting her to tell Dodge yes.

“Don’t listen to him.” Mary felt as if she was playing a game of tug-of-war with Agent Dodge, and her friend was the rope.

Ignoring her, Dodge continued to apply pressure. “Rusk never met Ruby. Jackson was her only point of contact. But in case he described her to him, you’re her height. We’ll get a blonde wig and a different outfit for you.”

“What’s wrong with my clothes?” Molly looked angry but didn’t make eye contact with either one of them.

John had told Mary about Dodge’s rude comment on Ruby’s appearance. At least the man had the decency to feel some shame over ogling the now-dead girl. His face was red as if he had been slapped. “Ruby had a distinctive look. Your jumper and khakis are too . . . concealing.”

Mary’s head was pounding. She turned to get some aspirin out of her purse on the counter. Reaching inside, she felt her mobile.

She whirled around. “At least let’s call Sherlock.”

“No!” Molly insisted. “You aren’t telling him a thing. Promise me you won’t call either of them. Promise.”

With Molly’s attention fully on her, Mary took her by the shoulders. “You don’t have to do this. We can come up with something else—something that doesn’t put you in danger.”

For a moment it looked as if she was getting through, but Dodge wasn’t out of the game yet. He gave the rope one last pull. “If you don’t do this, Dr. Hooper, we won’t have Rusk. But if you do, I’ll make sure all the charges against Sherlock are dropped tonight.”

Molly waited a beat. “You promise?”

“Absolutely.”

“I’ll do it,” Molly said so softly Dodge made her repeat herself.

With a shuddering sigh, Mary looked toward the ceiling.

“We don’t have a lot of time. McKenna!” Dodge shouted brusquely. “Have you heard from Thompson?”

“She’s getting the wig and the dress.”

Scooting her chair back on the newly polished floor, Molly turned to Mary. “He said he would go to rehab. I have to do this. Please understand.”

“I do understand.” Mary smiled brokenly. “It’s who you are and why we all love you. But this is wrong. You are out of your depth.”

Molly suddenly looked uncertain. “All I have to do is give him the money, right? And then you’ll arrest him?”

“Yes.” Dodge mopped his brow. “We need to be on our way.”

“This is too dangerous.” Mary’s gut twisted.

“But it will clear Sherlock.” A determined expression flashed across Molly’s face. It was only there for a second, but it was enough to remind Mary of something she couldn’t name, and that frightened her even more.

With a fleeting look back over her shoulder, Molly quickly followed Dodge and McKenna out of the flat. The second Mary heard the door downstairs shut, she pressed the speed dial number for her husband.

“Hello, you’ve reached the voice mail of Dr. John Watson . . .”

Mary frantically dialed Sherlock. “I am Sherlock Holmes. Obviously I am not taking your call . . .”

“Oh bloody hell!”

She raced down the stairs. Peering out the front door to make sure Dodge had left, she ran to her car as if her life depended on it. But she knew it wasn’t her life in the balance.

~s~s~s~s~s~

The Aviary at Montieth was part of a moderate-size estate that had been owned by Franklin Montieth who operated several coalmines at the turn of the twentieth century. So affected was he by the death of his oldest son, Edward, in WWI that he turned the grounds into a “place of rest” for returning troops, for their “solace and restoration.” After his death, his daughter Matilda went a step further and created an aviary in a corner of the woods, having been convinced that reflecting on nature would soothe the nerves of shell-shocked veterans.

The aviary was built on the west side of the estate; a jumble of aluminum and netting, it came to be known as the Matilda’s Folly. It wasn’t until the 1960s that the foundation in charge of the estate pulled it down and built a new one that was up to code. Home to green peafowl, sacred ibis, egrets, and many other species, the rectangle-shaped structure was a relaxing venue with stone benches and wooden walkways winding through native foliage. Some trees had been cleared to introduce a calming water feature. In the 1980s, the Birds of the World pavilion was built 30 yards away in an open field and became the much more popular of the two attractions.

“Haven’t been here since I was a lad.” Lestrade pulled on to an old shard of road and gunned it up to the main house, which was now a welcome center and eatery. Parking at the bottom of the horseshoe-shaped car park, he turned to Riegel.

“See what you can do about stopping any more tourists from getting in. I’ll track down the narcotics officers. As for you two.” He looked at Sherlock and John in the rearview mirror. “You wait here.”

“Of course,” Sherlock replied.

“Right then.” Adjusting his aviator sunglasses, Lestrade headed toward the main entrance with Riegel in tow.

“Really?” John was flummoxed. He hadn’t imagined he and Sherlock wouldn’t be part of the action, in spite of the fact his bandaged arm was in a cumbersome sling.

“Rusk surely has seen a picture of me in the newspaper or online as having been arrested for the murder he committed.” Sherlock gazed out the window, drumming his fingers in anticipation. “When Dodge arrives, we’ll get a radio so we can track what is going on. We’ll go to the aviary when Agent Crain is in position.”

~s~s~s~s~s~

Sitting in the back of a small utility van, Molly rode to Montieth wedged between Dodge and a wall of surveillance equipment.

“I’ve downloaded information on the aviary. Once you pay your admittance fee,” he said, handing her several notes, “you’ll go down a slight hill on a flagstone walkway to the aviary. Once you’re inside, stick to the main path. You’ll reach a large pond. Sit on the bench on the far left.”

She waited apprehensively. When Dodge said nothing, she asked, “And then what?”

“You wait. Rusk will contact you. You give him the money. We arrest him.”

“And how many agents will be in there with me?”

“More than enough.” Dodge sounded preoccupied.

As the van rolled to a stop, Molly looked around in a panic. “Are we there already?”

“No, we’re picking up Agent Thompson,” Dodge said as the back doors were flung open from the outside. A woman with long, cornrowed hair got in with two carrier bags.

“Got the wig?” Dodge asked her.

She nodded. “And a dress and sandals.”

“Dr. Hooper, you can change in here. I’ll have a cab waiting when you’re done.”

“A cab?” Her feelings of apprehension rose.

Dodge stepped out of the van. “In case Rusk is watching you arrive.”

“I’m Alisha Thompson,” the woman said. “After you change, I’ll help you on with the wig.”

“D-Don’t you need to tape a microphone under my clothes or something?” Molly asked as she unbuttoned her jumper.

Alisha smiled. “Eavesdropping equipment is sophisticated enough to record high-def video and sound and stream it live to my computer.”

Unbuttoning her sweater, Molly watched as the policewoman opened a small box. She took out a metal device no bigger than a pen cap.

“I have a scarf to tie around the wig,” Alisha said. “I’ll attach this to the underside of it.”

Quickly getting out of her khakis, Molly slid into the breezy sundress. Its fit-and-flare silhouette hugged her curves and the open strappy back showed more skin than she was accustomed to. The wedge sandals slid on perfectly. The blonde wig, however, was like a tight-fitting furnace.

Alisha had done the best she could on short notice. The golden blonde wig had side-swept bangs and loose waves that flowed past Molly’s shoulder blades. But it wasn’t of the highest quality and within minutes of putting it on, Molly began to perspire uncomfortably under the fake hair.

Alisha took a thin, floral scarf and put it on Molly like a headband. She tied it underneath the hair, then draped the two ends over Molly’s left shoulder. Carefully she slipped the recording device underneath the scarf at Molly’s eye level and pushed down on one end.

“All right, it’s on. It turns off when you push down on the front, but don’t worry about that. Just let it run. When this is over, I’ll turn it off. Now, do you have any lipstick with you?” Alisha asked.

“I must have left my bag at Sherlock’s.”

“Here.” Alisha reached in her purse and handed her a large pair of sunglasses and a gold tube of cardinal-colored lipstick. “Use mine.”

Molly applied a glossy coat with trembling fingers. “How do I look?”

Alisha studied her critically. “Good. Now put on the sunglasses and you’re all set.”

Dodge rapped hard on the back door. “Everything ready?”

“Everything is working fine, sir. See, Molly? I’m recording all that you see, hear, and say.” She pointed to one of the monitors.

Molly peered at the screen to see herself staring back. But it wasn’t Molly Hooper. All she saw was a mass of blonde hair, red lips, and dark sunglasses. The only thing that she recognized was her slightly upturned nose. The woman in the screen was a fine-featured Bridget Bardot.

The back doors of the van swung open and Dodge helped her to the ground. A taxi sat waiting down the block.

“We will be right behind you. Make sure you see us pull into the carpark before you go from the welcome center to the aviary.” Dodge handed her the attaché case. “You’re going to be fine, Dr. Hooper. Just give him the money. Once he has it in hand and steps away from you, we’ll swarm in. You’ll be absolutely fine.”

~s~s~s~s~s~

Mary pounded on her steering wheel and let fly a stream of colorful profanities. An auto accident had shut down the road ahead in both directions, boxing her in.

“Please be there.” She tried John’s number only to get voice mail again. “John, I’m stuck in traffic and I don’t know when I’ll get there, but Dodge convinced Molly to pretend to be Ruby. She’s in danger. You have to stop her!”

The lorry in front of her moved forward a full car length before stopping again. Without hesitating, Mary pulled the steering wheel right hard and did an illegal U-turn on the shoulder. Amid blaring horns, she sped down the shoulder until she reached a point where she could safely cross a strip of grass and get onto another road.

“It’s you and me, GPS.” She hit the accelerator.

~s~s~s~s~s~

The wind whispered of fresh-cut grass and blooming freesia. Inhaling deeply, Molly caught a glimpse of the dark van pulling into a parking space at the bottom of the carpark. On its side was stenciled “Johnson Home Repairs.” Funny, she hadn’t noticed that before.

She wobbled a bit in her heels but quickly regained her balanced as she walked down the hill toward the aviary. Molly tried to act normally, but she was carrying an attaché case in a park. There was nothing normal about this situation.

 _Oh God, what am I doing?_ She felt like throwing up.

An older couple passed her, their arms linked. A jogger smiled at her as he ran by.

_Are they undercover police?_

Part of her desperately wanted to recognize someone she knew from Scotland Yard. The other part of her was terrified she would run into Sherlock and John. They undoubtedly were there, somewhere, expecting Agent Crain to exchange the money.

She had only gone a short distance when on her right appeared a large one-story building with a sign advertising it was the home of Perry the Penguin. Molly hesitated for a second, confused, then realized it had to be the other bird sanctuary. From the map of the grounds Dodge had showed her that meant the aviary was up ahead. Her heart pounded dully as she kept walking.

As she entered a grove of trees, she realized it was actually the beginning of a large section of woods. A sign with arrows pointing different directions indicated walking trails to the left and the aviary to the right.

 _This is it_ , Molly thought. _Sherlock will be cleared. He will go to rehab. And maybe, just maybe, you can rebuild your life with him. Time to suck it up._

Walking a little taller, she proceeded to the aviary, a structure that was impressive in its size and serene in nature. The architects had purposefully designed it to blend in with the existing woods. She took a deep breath and went inside. Immediately she was struck by peacefulness. Birds called to one another high in the treetops as she rounded a curve. Papery seeds of elms floated by slow enough to touch. To her left, a wooden walkway disappeared around a large flowering hedge. Molly stuck to the main pathway, following two butterflies chasing one another. Cottonwood fluff blew around her feet.

Quite a few people walked about, most craning their necks to look upward. Molly averted her eyes from a tall man in a groundskeeper uniform. For a moment she thought he was Sherlock. A group of children came from the other direction, laughing as their mother chased after them.

_This will all be over in a few minutes._

The air was very close, almost suffocating. Sensing she was approaching water, Molly walked quickly through an archway of branches that led her to a large pond. Only a few ripples flowed outward in circles along the surface. On the opposite side of the pond was a small waterfall with a staircase leading to a platform that overlooked the gently flowing water.

Scanning the area, Molly spied not one but three stone benches, one in front of the other, on the left facing the water.

_Dodge said there would only be one!_

Throwing back her shoulders, Molly decided to sit on the front one. The stone was cool on the back of her legs. She set the attaché case next to her, folded her hands in her lap, and focused on two men standing on the platform in the distance.

Sweat began to trickle down her bare back. She imagined the men were assigned to keep an eye on her. She pictured them running down the stairs and coming to her aid in a minute, although she knew it would take them a lot longer to circle the pond than that.

Molly started when a woman with a wide-brimmed hat darted in front of her to snap a picture. She wiped her damp palms on her thighs as the sun cracked through a drifting cloud and dappled the water.

_Only a few more minutes._

Now a man stepped in front of her and raised his camera phone. She let her eyes drift shut for a moment, lulled by the heat and stress. So when he spoke, she jumped.

“Hello Ruby.”


	16. Realization

From his vantage point atop the platform over the waterfall, Lestrade surveyed the aviary. Technically this wasn’t a bust he should be part of, but it was an all-hands-on-deck situation. He had called in for a unit to back him up but had been met with red tape when it was learned this was a National Crimes Agency case. He ended up directly calling a few blokes who didn’t give a rip about bureaucracy, but it would take a while for them to get there.

Lestrade hadn’t spied “Ruby” yet, but he did see McKenna at the exit on the far end of the aviary pretending to be waiting for someone. He knew Riegel was in the welcome center preventing any more civilians from heading to the tropical bird pavilion, but he hadn’t been able to clear that attraction out. Resting on the edge of a bench, the detective thumbed through a brochure on the history of Montieth Manor and surreptitiously glanced around as a man wearing running shorts and a blue Nike T-shirt sprinted up the stairs to join him at the top.

“This seat taken?”

Lestrade shrugged as Peter Hannon from narcotics plopped down next to him and covertly pulled two radios out of his backpack. “Dodge finally showed up. You and I got the last two. He hadn’t brought enough.”

“He needs to lose his shield,” Lestrade growled.

“I ran past the subject on my way here. She’ll be here in a minute.” Hannon took out a pair of binoculars and slipped them around his neck. “So what’s homicide doing here?”

“Rusk is a possible murder suspect.”

The younger man nodded. “He’s branching out then. Sid Vicious, he’s the one that’s known for the violence.”

“What do you know about him?” The detective stood and stared across the water. A light spray blew into his face from the waterfall crashing below.

“Sid? Worthless sod. Rusk is dealing a lot of dope, but he always keeps his hands clean. His boss is the one my unit is after. Hopefully we’ve got him. Or you have him. Or Dodge has him.” Hannon chuckled at his own humor.

Dodge’s gravelly voice cracked across the radio. “Subject has entered the aviary.”

“Roger,” a woman replied. “I have eyes on her.”

“That’s Miller, one of my people.” Hannon ran his hand over his close-cropped black hair. “Singh should be to our left. The rest of my guys have established a perimeter outside the grounds.”

Lestrade casually leaned on the railing. The pond’s collection of ducks—mallard, khaki campbell, muscovey—drifted along the shore, arguing with one another. He focused on the benches across the water where the real Ruby, according to Sherlock, had told Rusk she would meet him. Another time he might have thought this was a peaceful place.

“I have eyes on her.” Hannon adjusted his binoculars.

Lestrade’s pulse began to pound like it always did whenever he was about to catch a perp. He watched as a petite blonde paused near the pond and sat opposite them on a bench.

“Subject at 12 o’clock,” he said into his radio.  

“Roger that.” It was Miller. “I’m a few feet outside the branch archway.”

“I’m at your three,” Dodge reported. Lestrade looked over and saw the man trying to conceal himself behind a flowering hedge.

“Where is Sherlock?” Hannon asked.

“I told him to stay in the car.”

“Right.” Smirking, Hannon adjusted his binoculars. “Hold on. Someone is approaching the subject from her six.”

The hairs stood on end at the nape of Lestrade’s neck. A woman walked up and stepped in front of “Ruby.”

“It’s nothing. Just a tourist taking a snap,” Dodge reported.

She appeared to fiddle with her camera before taking several pictures of the waterfall that flowed beneath his feet. She blocked “Ruby,” but he could still make out the younger woman’s blonde hair and bare arms. The older woman turned and walked away.

The radio buzzed. Miller said in a hushed tone, “Someone just passed me and is moving in front of the subject.”

“You’ve got to be kidding,” Lestrade muttered as a large man now obscured his view of the subject. “He must be three times the size of Crain. I can’t see her at all.”

“That’s not her name,” Hannon said.

“Yeah it is!” Lestrade declared. “Julie Crain.”

Hannon shook his head. “When I got the radios from Dodge, the name he said was Hooper.”

~s~s~s~s~s~

Sherlock toed out another cigarette as he observed Peter Hannon run from a black utility van sitting on the opposite end of the carpark.

_Sprinter, in training for his first marathon._

Surreptitiously Sherlock noted how his best friend cradled his arm as he leaned against the boot of Lestrade’s car. The bullet wound was obviously taking its toll.

“Come on, John. Time to get Rusk and be done with this.” Sherlock walked briskly toward the van.

“How do you know that’s Dodge’s car?” John lagged behind Sherlock’s long strides.

The detective scanned the area. “Do you see any other car here that looks like it is trying hard to be ordinary?”

“No.”

“Also, I just saw my contact at the narco unit talking to someone in it.” Rapping sharply on the rear doors, Sherlock stepped back as Dodge emerged.

“Holmes, what do you want?” His eyes fastened on the ground, Dodge hitched up his pants and began to walk in the direction of the aviary.

“I need a radio to monitor the situation.”

“Sorry, just gave my last two to Hannon and Lestrade.” Dodge moved surprisingly quickly for a big man.

“You are thoroughly incompetent,” Sherlock shouted after him.

“If you’d like, you can watch the video feed with me,” Alisha offered.

Puzzled, John watched Dodge disappear from view. “He seemed nervous around you. I wonder why.”

“Who cares?” Sherlock slid in next to Alisha. He stared at the video feed “Ruby” was transmitting. The woman clearly was of short stature, but she was moving deliberately along the path. A few minutes later the radio chatter picked up when Dodge announced “Ruby” had entered the aviary. The officers announced their positions.

“Lestrade is on the platform? Good, he’ll have clear line of sight,” Sherlock said.

Had it only been a few days since he sat in a cell, feeling every fiber of himself dying intellectually and physically? Now he was primed to move forward. Rehab wouldn’t be easy—he knew that from past experience—but he was on the verge of taking those threads of his past life and creating a new one.

“Sherlock!”

It took a moment for him to cue in that John had been repeating his name. Standing outside of the van, the doctor awkwardly tried to reach his opposite front pocket with his free hand. “Do you have my mobile?”

“You dropped it when you were playing Superman.” Sherlock passed it to him.

John was displeased. “Why is it turned off?”

“Mary was sure to text and call to make sure you were all right, which would be a distraction.” Not looking away from the screen, Sherlock tracked with “Ruby” as she sat on the bench. He smiled in anticipation.

“So you’d rather let her be sick with worry?” It took a nearly a minute for John’s phone to power up. “Look! Two missed calls. Sherlock, sometimes I swear I’ll—”

“Quiet!” Sherlock warned. A woman in a floral dress had stepped in front of Ruby.

“It’s nothing. Just a tourist taking a snap,” Dodge reported.

John played the first voice mail. It was a hang up. When the second message aired, it was garbled, but the panic and fear in Mary’s voice heightened all of Sherlock’s senses.

“John, I’m stuck in traffic  . . . Dodge convinced Molly . . . danger . . . stop her!”

_Dodge. Molly. Danger._

Sherlock stared at the screen, his face freezing into a mask of horror and anger. “Ruby” was looking down at her hands, which rested in her lap. Those were the hands he loved. Small in size, skilled with a scalpel, deceptively strong, those hands could slap a face, dry a tear, and let a man who was full of faults know he was so very loved. On her wrist lay a delicate, silver charm bracelet he had given her years ago. Glistening in the pale sunlight was Polaris, the North Star.

_“No matter what dangers the sailor faced or how many years he was gone, he knew he could count on his star. It was his true north,” he had said when he gave it to her. “That is why this star needs to be on your bracelet. It is part of who you are. To me.”_

With an anguished cry, Sherlock jumped to his feet, his eyes darting around the van’s interior. He physically picked Alisha up and moved her out of her seat.

“What do you think you’re doing?” she shouted angrily.

Grabbing the carrier bag that had been at her feet, he pulled out a cherry-covered sweater.

~s~s~s~s~s~

Mud-colored cargo shorts and a yellow cotton shirt with a Nehru collar. Spindly white legs that hadn’t seen the sun in thirty years. Dark socks in brown hiking sandals. A Panama hat. The overweight man a few feet in front of Molly Hooper blocked her view. But the voice hadn’t come from him. It was whispering in her left ear.

“Do not turn around. That man has been paid to stand there for the next five minutes, in case prying eyes are watching. He thinks it’s a prank. Do you understand?”

Molly found her voice. “Yes.”

“Place the briefcase on its side on the ground and push it backward with your foot.”

The gravel scraped as she prodded the case under the bench. Closing her eyes, she focused on every sound. Someone quickly picked up the case and hurried away. But the voice was still there.

Molly’s heart sank. Rusk had brought someone with him. Rusk didn’t have the money in hand like Dodge needed. She hadn’t captured him on the surveillance feed, and she was positive Alisha hadn’t heard any of what he was saying.

She had to do something.

“It’s all there,” she declared boldly.

“I’m sure it is,” the voice murmured. “But we need something more from you.”

“What more do you need from me?” Molly raised her voice.

“My boss wants to talk to you.”

“Your want me to talk to your boss?” Molly cried.

“Shhh! You are going to get up and walk out the exit. If you don’t, you’ll be shot.”

~s~s~s~s~s~

“You must have misheard him,” Lestrade insisted. “Hooper is the last name of Sherlock’s girlfriend, Molly Hooper. The woman posing as Ruby is Julie Crain.”

Deep furrows bracketed Hannon’s mouth like parentheses. “Something is wrong, mate, because Dodge said he was sending in Hooper.”

Lestrade strained to see around the man blocking the subject, but it was no use. He brought the radio to his mouth. “I do not have eyes on the subject. Repeat, I do not have eyes on the subject.”

“Two men are sitting directly behind the subject.” Miller was agitated. “Wait, now it’s one man. I don’t have a visual on the second man.”

“I am moving toward her six,” said Singh.

Dodge sounded spitting mad. “Don’t lose sight of the main target. We have to get Rusk!”

~s~s~s~s~s~

Sherlock had never run so hard or so fast in his life. Across the lawn, past the welcome center, and down the hill, his burning lungs complained that he hadn’t exerted himself in months. But pain didn’t matter, nor did clearing his name or the hammering need for a hit. All that mattered was getting Molly out of there.

He immediately knew what had to have happened to put her in this situation, but he would deal with that later. He skidded and nearly fell when he passed the exotic bird habitat, but he quickly regained his footing and propelled himself into the woods. The aviary was in sight.

~s~s~s~s~s~

Molly stood on quaking legs.

“Go to your right,” the man ordered. “Do not look back at me.”

Once she had cleared her bench, he took her elbow from behind and pulled her into him possessively.

“Don’t make a sound,” he whispered. “Start walking forward.”

 _Dodge?_ The voice in her mind whimpered. _Sherlock? Greg?_

Hot tears coursing down her cheeks, she threw her shoulders back. If she had learned one thing from Sherlock, it was to not give in to fear.

~s~s~s~s~s~

“Subject is on the move. Repeat: Subject is on the move!” Singh barked.

Hannon and Lestrade took the stairs two at a time.

“Do not let her leave with him,” Lestrade shouted into his radio as he ran pell-mell around the pond.

“All units, move in! Move in!” Thompson ordered.

~s~s~s~s~s~

The man jerked Molly to a stop as a crush of foreign tourists flooded the area moving as one, all with enthusiastic interest and the same crushable hats. They wore matching green polo shirts and followed a young man carrying a flag with a parrot on it.

It was her only chance.

Knowing he would expect her to pull her elbow away, Molly instead drove it back hard into the man’s stomach. She whirled around and sent her knee into his crotch, then took the heel of her hand and slammed it straight into his chin. She didn’t wait to see the results of her actions. With a cry, she escaped into the tour group. Staying low to the ground, she rushed in the direction of the entrance. Hit by elbows and the corners of larger purses, it felt as if she were a salmon travelling upstream. She fought her way through the crowd as streams of sweat poured down her face. Too afraid to look over her shoulder to see if the man was behind her, Molly pushed forward with everything she had and finally burst out of the throng. She ran headlong toward the main entrance.

Her eyes immediately tracked to a tall man vaulting over the turnstile.

“Sherlock!” she cried.

He looked at her wildly. “Get out of here!” he ordered. “Run!”


	17. Chaos

John sat in the van, transfixed by the live feed of Molly slowly rising to her feet. Providing a background chorus for her movements was the radio chatter as everyone talked at once. It was then his mobile rang.

“Mary?”

“John, you have to stop her! Molly is—”

“Molly is Ruby, we know. Where are you?”

“Pulling up the drive now.”

Looking through the open doors, John spied a dust cloud he knew had to be his wife’s car. He got out of the van and waved his free arm above his head. The tires squealed as she pulled to a stop.

John was glad he had spent the drive from Baker Street studying maps of the grounds. He got in quickly. “There’s a service road behind the bird sanctuary. We’ll get there quicker if you take that than me trying to run.”

~s~s~s~s~s~

Sherlock rounded a corner to find a sea of green shirts and general bedlam. Two officers he didn’t recognize alternately tried to calm and contain the tour group, which was in an uproar. Hannon was interrogating a large man in a yellow shirt who plaintively repeated, “I didn’t do anything! He paid me!” Lestrade had clamped a hand down on the shoulder of a short man seated on a bench. A flag with a parrot on it lay trampled under foot.

But Sherlock didn’t care about any of that. Lestrade later told him he looked like a missile that had locked onto its target. Once Sherlock had Dodge in view, he landed one of his best right hooks ever.

The man seated on the bench laughed at the sight of Dodge writhing on the ground. Jim Rusk nodded at Sherlock.

“Good shot.”

Sherlock assessed him quickly: tan, muscular, with a full head of silver hair and black eyes like a shark’s.

“I hate the name Jim.”

He smiled without parting his lips. “I know who you are.”

“I would hope so. After all, I was arrested for a murder you committed,” Sherlock said.

Rusk dipped his shoulder to escape Lestrade’s hand, but the detective inspector had a vise-like grip. “Will you let me go? You have no reason to detain me.”

“You came here today to get back your drug money from Ruby Danley.” Now on his feet, Dodge warily kept his distance from Sherlock.

“I may have a fiver in my wallet, but that’s all the cash on me, and I don’t know a Ruby Danley. I came here to look at some birds.”

Searching the area with one glance, Sherlock noted the attaché case was nowhere to be seen.

Finished with the witness, Hannon stood at Sherlock’s side. “We will bring her back here and she can tell us what you said to her.”

“Hi, Peter.” Rusk greeted him like he would an old friend. “How are your daughters—Abby and Audrey, isn’t it?”`

Hannon clenched his fists. “Don’t even say their names, you scum.”

With an exaggerated sigh, Rusk examined his nails. “So what am I being held for? Is this about that business with the young woman?”

Now it was Sherlock’s turn to stiffen.

“What happened is this: She was sitting in front of me. We both stood to leave at the same time. She was walking in front of me when this mob”—he gestured to the green shirts—“threw her off balance. Of course, I did what any gentleman would do and held her arms to steady her. Well, she must have thought I was making a move on her because she kneed me and hit me in the jaw.”

Sherlock suppressed a smile. His girl was fearless.

“If anyone should be complaining to the police, it’s me,” he sniffed. “If she says anything differently, then it’s her word against mine.”

~s~s~s~s~s~

Molly passed though the turnstile in a blur. Fine gravel flew as she stumbled out of the woods and up the flagstones. At the tropical bird building, she tore off the wig, her hair falling in damp strands around her face. Out of breath and feeling hot and shivery at the same time, she leaned heavily against the wall. She unfastened the recording device, dropped the hairpiece, and stared up into the shocked face of A. J. Fitzsimmons.

“Molly?” He appraised her bedraggled appearance. “What on earth?”

“A. J.! What are you doing here?” she panted.

He couldn’t have looked any more surprised if he had seen the queen riding by on a bicycle. “You are shaking like a leaf, my girl. Come with me.”

She let him lead her to his car, which was parked on a service road behind the pavilion. He quickly unlocked the silver BMW and deposited her in the passenger seat. Keeping her feet on the ground, Molly put her head between her knees.

“I feel a little faint.”

“I have a bottle of water in here somewhere.” He leaned his cane against the car and rummaged in the back seat. “You may be having a heat stroke.”

“I had a wig on, you see. I was helping Sherlock.” Molly’s thoughts muddled together.

“Sit up.” A. J. handed her the bottle. “Wearing a wig would overheat you on a day like today. Swing your legs in and I’ll turn on the air conditioning.”

Molly obeyed and finished the water in a few gulps. A. J. started the motor and turned the A/C on full blast. She closed her eyes as the cool air washed over her. “Thank you. Oh, what a relief.”

“You were helping Sherlock, you say?” A. J. asked in a measured tone. “Your young man?”

“Yes,” Molly replied. “It’s a long story, but he was arrested for Mr. Kincaid’s murder. I was helping the police catch the drug dealer who is the real killer.”

“My goodness. The police are here?”

“Yes.” Feeling a little better, Molly was surprised to see they were slowly backing out of their parking space. “No, I need to stay here.”

A. J. remained focused. “You just relax.”

“No, no,” she said. “You don’t understand. I can’t leave. Please stop.”

“I do understand.” He put the car into drive. “And I’m very sorry.”

She gazed at him in bewilderment. “Sorry about what?”

“That Sherlock Holmes got you involved in this business.”

Confused, Molly tried the door handle. It was locked from the driver’s side. “Please let me out.”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that.” A. J. looked at her with genuine sadness. “It’s very unfortunate that you ran in to me.”

~s~s~s~s~s~

“Not so fast.” Lestrade forced Rusk to sit again. “We have it all on tape. Your entire conversation with . . . Ms. Danley.”

Dodge had turned puce. “We don’t have it. The subject didn’t face him and the recorder didn’t pick up their conversation.”

Sherlock’s stomach dropped. There was no money and no evidence on tape, therefore no reason to hold Rusk. He wouldn’t get the chance to interrogate him about Kincaid’s murder.

The drug dealer chuckled as Sherlock looked on in disbelief. “Then I would say you have to let me go.”

“He paid this man to stand in front of her!” Hannon insisted.

Mr. Yellow Shirt’s head bobbed up and down. “He did!”

“That isn’t a crime.” Rusk gave Sherlock a little wink. “If there isn’t anything else, I think I will be going.”

~s~s~s~s~s~

A. J. cautiously looked through all the windows before easing the car forward. “I told you about Butch, the sailor with me on the _HMS Sheffield_? A few years ago I decided to start a business venture and brought him on board to handle operations. Unfortunately, he has gotten sloppy lately. Money missing, that sort of thing. Then he killed someone he wasn’t supposed to.”

“Killed?” Icy fingers tripped up and down her spine. Not fully understanding what was happening, Molly felt something small and hard in the palm of her hand. It was the recording device.

“Butch’s name is Jim Rusk.”

She spoke deliberately loudly. “Jim Rusk killed Evan Kincaid?”

“Yes. Well, actually it was Sid, but he did it on Jim’s orders. I normally wouldn’t have anyone like Sid working for me, but it’s a necessary evil these days. When you told me about Evan’s murder, I was truly shocked. Sid and Jim weren’t supposed to kill him.”

“Where are you taking me? Why are we on this service road?” Little bubbles of hysteria began to rise in her chest, but she managed to stay focused on giving Alisha vital bits of information.

A. J. looked at her suspiciously. “Jim was supposed to bring Ruby to me. Now it would seem the police have captured him. If Sid made it out, he will follow our Plan B and meet me up ahead with the money. That is where you and I are headed.”

“Please, Mr. Fitzsimmons,” Molly said loudly. “You like me. You’ve liked me since we first met at St. Bart’s. Let me go.”

A tick fired at the corner of A. J.’s mouth. “A good leader has to be willing to make sacrifices.”

~s~s~s~s~s~

Everyone’s radio crackled to life. Thompson came across loud and anxious.

“Attention all units, subject is on the move.”

Sherlock looked at Lestrade sharply. The detective inspector brought the radio up to his mouth. “Command, can you repeat?”

“All available units proceed to the service road behind the pavilion. Repeat: all available units proceed to the service road behind the pavilion. Subject is in a car, make unknown.”

Sherlock was already gone by the time Lestrade pointed at Rusk. “Keep him here!” he ordered Dodge.

_Who? What? Why?_

Questions raced through his mind faster than his feet could move. This breakneck pace wasn’t something Lestrade was used to, but Hannon was. Peter passed him easily and had caught up to Sherlock when they cleared the woods.

“Attention all units, you are looking for A. J. Fitzsimmons.”

~s~s~s~s~s~

Molly wasn’t sure what to do next. She had given Alisha her location, the person she was with, and the murderer’s name. All she could do was continue to broadcast and pray they reached her before A. J. took her somewhere out of their reach.

A. J. peered under his visor. In the distance a blue car was approaching at an alarming rate of speed. Noting her captor’s distraction, Molly grabbed the steering wheel and turned it as hard as she could toward her. Taken by surprise, A.J. couldn’t regain control. Not letting go, Molly gritted her teeth as they cut across the road and bumped down a slight embankment into an open grassy area. The car stopped with a bone-jarring jolt.

Dazed, A. J. moaned. Losing no time, Molly reached across him and pushed the master unlock button on his armrest. She shoved her door open and stumbled out.

“Molly!”

Someone shouted behind her. It sounded like John.

~s~s~s~s~s~

Mary slammed on her breaks as the silver car coming their way suddenly swerved and went off the road. They watched as the BMW bucked its way down the berm, coming to an abrupt stop in a field. A moment later Molly fell out of the passenger door.

“Molly!” John was out of the car and running toward her, Mary close behind.

She saw them and rushed their way. As she crested the top of the bank, John slowed and they all broke out in the laughter that sometimes follows a high-stress situation.

“Molly, you are—” he managed to get out before two gunshots echoed, sending shrieking birds flying out of the trees higher and higher.


	18. Despair

“Shots fired! Shots fired!”

Sherlock’s heart constricted. Molly was dead, and it was his fault.

Blindly running toward the service road, his racing thoughts went silent except for one: _Get to her_. When he rounded the curve behind the bird sanctuary, it was a double punch to the gut. In the distance his best friend was curled over the still form of his wife in front of their car; Molly lay yards from them on her back, her legs bent at an awkward angle. No one was moving.

Hannon had been out front. At Thompson’s alert, he immediately dropped to a crouching position, surveying the scene for a shooter. Lestrade ran up with weapon drawn and half-dozen newly arrived backup officers. Sherlock thundered past them all and would have bolted down the road if Lestrade hadn’t grabbed his arm and not let go.

“Sherlock!” He struggled with the younger man, eventually wrestling him to the ground. Nowhere near his normal weight or strength, Sherlock couldn’t throw him off.

“Molly! John!” His strangled cry could have attracted the shooter’s attention, but he didn’t care.

“Look!” Hannon whispered.

John had lifted his head and was saying something to Mary. She nodded imperceptibly and he climbed off her, slowly removing the sling. Staying low to the ground, they scooted backward to the car. John opened the door to the back seat and climbed in. Mary got in the front and scrambled over to the driver’s seat, keeping her head down. The car started up immediately. She carefully drove forward, positioning the car between Molly and the field.

“They’re using the car as a shield,” Sherlock said.

“The shots must have come from that direction.” Lestrade let Sherlock up. “All units, approach from the northeast. Active shooter in the woods.”

It took less than a minute. John got out, scooped Molly into his arms, and climbed back in. Throwing the car into reverse, Mary drove backward twenty yards before making a U-turn.

Sherlock stared down the road long after Lestrade and his men had rushed across the field and the blue car had disappeared from sight.

“Please.”

It was as close to saying a prayer as he had ever come.

~s~s~s~s~s~

“Jesus, Mary, drive faster!”

Stealing glances in the rearview mirror, Mary could only see red. The bastard had shot Molly in the abdomen. It was as if he had wanted her to suffer.

“You’re going to be fine, Molly, please.”

John’s fear mirrored her own. The sickening thumping of Molly’s convulsing body made Mary sob. It was like watching a horror movie play out in real life as John struggled to hold her.

“No, no, no, come on. Shhh, shhh. Don’t do this, don’t do this,” he whispered.

Checking the GPS directions on her mobile, Mary hit the accelerator. They were almost there.

Choked with tears, she asked, “John? What’s happening?”

When he didn’t answer, she looked in the mirror again. “Tell me!”

It was as if someone had flipped a switch. John’s demeanor morphed from compassionate physician to steely-eyed soldier before her eyes.

“Just get us there.”

~s~s~s~s~s~  
It hadn’t mattered that he didn’t have privileges at the country hospital; the minute he carried Molly into the A & E, the consulting physician asked him to stay. Their chief was out and an extra pair of hands—especially those of a former army doctor experienced in trauma—was needed. A nurse got on the phone to find out if Molly could be airlifted to the major trauma center in Cambridge, but there was no time—they were in a race to keep her from bleeding out. Both bullets had gone through and through but not before leaving a path of destruction. Before she could even have a CAT scan, Molly was rushed to the operating theater.

“Is she going to live?”

John looked down at his hands; he squeezed them together, futilely trying to stop their shaking. Now that the adrenaline had worn off, he faced the anxious faces of Mary, Lestrade, Hannon, and Alisha Thompson and pondered how to answer. Knowing what Molly’s chances were didn’t mean he could accept them any easier than the people gathered in front of him would.

“One of the nurses let me know before I came down here that they are removing her spleen. Which is OK. You don’t have to have a spleen to live. Of all the organs to lose, the spleen is the best, right after the appendix.”

Mary knew him so well. She knew he was stalling and immediately teared up.

The normal cadence of his speech was broken by his efforts to breathe rhythmically. “Her liver is lacerated in several places. They will tie all the bleeders off and pack it. If she makes it through the night, she has a chance. But right now, she is critically ill.”

It was as if all the life in the waiting room had been sucked out, and he was the black hole that caused it. The only person not reacting to the news was Sherlock. Pensive and dark, his friend sat to the side looking as if he had already buried Molly a dozen times over.

John squeezed his shoulder. “But that doesn’t take into account her love for life or her determination or her love for you—the intangibles that can tip the scale.”

“Mr. Holmes, if it helps any, Molly did a brilliant job getting all the proof we needed,” said Alisha. “She got A. J. Fitzsimmons to confess everything about Kincaid’s murder. I’m sure that will get the charges dropped against you.”

Sherlock looked at her balefully. “That no longer matters.”

Mary took his hand. “When she’s out of surgery, you need to go to her. Let her know you’re there. I’ll go with you”

He was going to say something sharp, but changed his mind and placed a gentle kiss on her cheek. “Thank you. For everything.”

~s~s~s~s~s~

An hour later, Mary stared at the blood on her shoes. It had to be Molly’s. She just couldn’t recall when or how it had gotten there. Silently cursing the time it had taken her to reach the estate, she listened to the ventilator breathe for Molly. John had pulled some strings, or maybe it was Mycroft, who had been updated by Lestrade. Someone had arranged for her and Sherlock to slip into the ICU after Molly had been settled. Ashen and completely still, Sherlock stared at Molly, his eyes glistening.

“Don’t give up on her,” Mary whispered. “You have to hang on.”

“She is going to die on the day I said I wanted to live. The timing seems to be the universe’s sick joke, if I believed the universe cared.” Sherlock’s voice revealed his utter desolation. “Without her, I have little to hang on to and less to hang on for.”

Everything from the day blurred into a montage of images and sounds, but one moment froze in Mary’s mind. “Molly had a look on her face before she left with Dodge. It reminded me of something. I couldn’t put my finger on it at the time, but I remember now. It’s a Bronte poem:

‘No coward soul is mine  
No trembler in the world’s storm-troubled sphere:  
I see Heaven’s glories shine,  
And faith shines equal, arming me from Fear.’”

Her lower lip trembled. “Molly was no coward today. Now it’s your turn. Be brave for her, no matter what happens.”

He turned his head, meeting Mary’s gaze. He remained silent, but his eyes said, “This is my fault.”

~s~s~s~s~s~

John stopped in front of the hospital canteen. His stomach twisted at the thought of eating.

_My blood sugar level must be somewhere in my socks._

His arm didn’t hurt as much now that he had been given some pain medicine, but he felt shaky and weak and knew he should force something down. The pretty young woman at the register smiled sweetly as he paid for some tea and a prepackaged sandwich until she glanced down at his sweat-soaked shirt and its red stains. John favored her with a weak smile and wandered toward the windows with his tray, looking for a private place to eat.

“We wait in hospitals too often, you and I.”

Greg Lestrade sat in the dusk-darkened corner watching the shadows creep across his table.

“That we do,” John agreed.

Outside the last traces of the sunset had colored the Prussian blue sky with pink edges. A gray gloom enveloped both men. The fluorescent lighting cut a harsh slash across the worn Formica tabletop, elongating the sharp shadow of John’s teacup.

Lestrade tore open a packet of sugar and poured it in his cup. “Fitzsimmons and Rusk are under arrest.”

“What about Sid? He’s the one who shot Molly, isn’t he?”

“Bloody psychopath. We’ll find him.” Lestade looked longingly at John’s sandwich.

John offered him half. The two men didn’t say anything more about Sid. They knew he was armed and had enough cash to disappear forever if he wanted to. But that wouldn’t save him when Sherlock Holmes came looking for him.

Silence engulfed the pair until Lestrade asked what they were both thinking. “Do you think Sherlock’s going to go back on the stuff?”

Sickened, John wadded up his napkin with the last bit of crust. “If he’s going to, it will be tonight.”

~s~s~s~s~s~

She was five feet three inches of pure loyalty. Sherlock stared at Molly, examining her features. She was so pale her skin was almost translucent. He cringed at the tubes invading her body, familiarity rendering them more terrible, for he knew what each length of plastic did.

Why had she agreed to go along with Dodge’s plan, knowing it put her at risk? Why had she even come back to Baker Street after the way he had treated her?

He flinched when one of the monitor alarms went off. A nurse bustled in, turned the alarm off, and checked Molly’s IVs. She looked at Sherlock disapprovingly before she left saying nothing. She knew he shouldn’t be in there but clearly had been told that it was all right, that he was an exception. But it felt—there was that word again—as if she could see right through him and found him lacking in every way.

More now than when he sat in his jail cell, Sherlock wanted—needed—a hit. It wasn’t just that his body craved drugs from the center of his being; it was that he desperately wanted to turn off his feelings. He couldn't reason them away logically or mute the reality of what he had caused. He needed to be numb.

Why did she believe in him so much? Why did she love him unconditionally when he so obviously didn’t deserve her?

He went cold. At the beginnings of his dimmest memories, he knew he was different. Some things could never be fixed—and he was one of them. He had spent years perfecting the ability to not feel, but John had cracked that line of defense then Moly had destroyed it. He did feel. He felt everything.

Sherlock reached deep within himself and found nothing to anchor him but Molly. He had once told John that he would never give her up because he was inherently a selfish person. But he had mocked her, laughed at her love for him, and pushed her away like she meant nothing to him, and all because of the drugs. The truth was, of course, she was everything to him and he hadn’t been man enough to publicly declare how much he loved her. If she lived, he would spend the rest of his life making it up to her. But her chances were in black in white, written in her chart, displayed on the monitors, present in every scan. She most likely wouldn’t make it through the night.

He swallowed hard in a vain attempt to stem the rising tide of emotions, but it was of no use. An accumulation of pain and grief refused to be held back any longer. Drugs were of no use now. He would feel. Sob after sob wracked his body as his knees gave way.


	19. Aftermath

It was the shadow edge of night, a time when most people slept peacefully unaware of the suffocating darkness surrounding them. But for those who remained awake, it was when their greatest fears preyed on their minds. 

Between survival and death in the ICU was a gray area filled with musical beeps and hums and whirring noises. The floor echoed with the sounds of machines keeping people alive. Occasionally a code was called over the intercom, sending nurses and doctors rushing to the patient in distress. When that happened, Sherlock would stare in abject fear at Molly’s bed from where he slumped against the wall. But her heart continued to beat and she continued to breathe. 

Drained physically and emotionally, he felt disgusted with the fierce battle that raged inside him. He meant everything he had said about going to rehab. But it was taking all his inner resolve not to storm out of the hospital and find the nearest dealer. The tiny gossamer threads he clung to were tenuous at best.

The nurse he had encountered earlier interrupted his thoughts. She brought in a chair, took him by the arm, and sat him down as if he were a petulant three year old. Sherlock bristled. He didn’t want or deserve to be mothered. That, however, wasn’t her intention. 

“I’ve been in this business twenty years, and I know all the signs.” Her shrewd little eyes appraised him. “If you think you’re going to go get a fix while this lass is in that bed, you’ve got another thing coming. You’ve been given special privileges to be on the ward, so your arse isn’t going to get up unless it’s to go to the loo, and even then I’m going to make sure that’s where you go.” 

His mouth opened, a retort ready on his lips, but she had already left. A few minutes later she returned with peanut butter crackers and a cup of tea. 

“Eat these. Drink this,” she said as sternly. 

He sneered contemptuously and obeyed. The tea was heavy with sugar. 

“And you can stop glaring at me,” she said, reading something in Molly’s chart. “I believe she is going to be just fine.” 

Sherlock paused mid-chew and watched the monitors. He could read them as well as she could, and he saw nothing new. “What makes you think so?”

“She was very sick indeed when she went into surgery, but now her vital signs are better than what I would have expected.” She turned to leave, her expression softening. “It’s normal to feel scared when morning seems far away, but I feel she’s turned a corner.”

“The darkest before the dawn and all that?” He sounded sarcastic, but part of him secretly longed for her reassurance

“Yes,” she said simply. 

He waited until she left before inching the chair closer to Molly. He purposefully focused on her face and not the wound in her abdomen.

_“It’s Christmas morning, and it’s snowing! Isn’t it perfect?”_

_Happiness enveloped her as she threw her arms up to the sky. A stray shaft of sunlight glinted off the long braid that ran down her back as she lifted her face to the white canopy. Lacey flakes dusted her lashes as she extended mittened hands to him._

_“Join me.”_

“I regret not joining you.” His voice was scratchy and sounded ridiculously plaintive, but he pressed on. “I didn’t see the point of doing something so illogical. But it would’ve made you happy. I didn’t put your happiness before my stubbornness, and for that I am sorry.”

He intertwined his fingers through hers and studied how perfectly her hand fit with his. It was hard to tell where his flesh stopped and hers started. 

“I have a lot to make up to you. I have a lot to thank you for, too. You wanted to save me. I am trying to be worthy of that sacrifice, but I am struggling right now.”

“Sherlock?” John whispered, having entered without the detective noticing.

He swallowed down the lump in his throat and fought to keep his humanness in check. “Yes?”

“Why don’t you come get something to eat?”

Sherlock wouldn’t meet his friend’s eyes. “Nurse Ratchett gave me crackers. And she has informed me I am to remain sitting.”

“What? Never mind.” John looked at the monitors just like the nurse had. Sherlock watched his best friend’s face, hoping to read the truth in his response. Having the person he trusted most in the world tell him about Molly’s condition meant more than what the nurse had said.

“Molly’s stable. In fact, she’s doing better,” he said. “It’s OK. Mary and Greg are waiting.”

“I don’t want to leave her.”

“That’s what I thought you’d say, so we aren’t going far. We’ve taken over a small conference room and brought in tea and biscuits and sandwiches.”

Reluctantly, Sherlock leaned forward. “I will be right back,” he told Molly.

The machines beeped in reply.

The space was hardly a conference room. It was more like a large closet with a table and chairs wedged in it. Greg and Mary had spread out a hodgepodge of food they had scavenged from vending machines to make a poor man’s picnic.

Sherlock stiffened as Mary pulled him into a tight embrace. “How are you doing? How is Molly?”

Mary was an intelligent woman, certainly able to tell when a grown man had been crying, but she said nothing, instead handing him a cup of tea that had already grown cold.

“The nurse said she felt Molly had turned a corner,” he forced out.

Lestrade laughed in relief. “Well, that’s great news!”

“It is, you know.” John smiled at him. “Things are looking up.”

Feeling the knots in his neck relax slightly, Sherlock sat.

Lestrade tore open a package of crisps. “I’ve been on the phone with my superiors and Mycroft, and all charges against you have been dropped.”

_Mycroft._

Sherlock had forced his brother’s role in the day’s events out of his mind, but now he felt as if hot coals had dropped into his gut. “Don’t say his name. I never want to have anything to do with him again as long as he lives.”

“You don’t mean that,” Mary chided him.

“I do,” he said vehemently, sending a spray of liquid across the wall as he threw the disposable cup in the trash.

“He’s your brother,” she began.

“Not anymore,” he seethed.

“Don’t be a child,” John sighed.

They sat silently, no one eating. Every once in a while, one of them would look his direction as if they expected him to spontaneously combust.

“Stop doing that,” he snapped.

“Doing what?” John asked

“You’re wondering if I am going to go use,” he accused them.

Tired, Lestrade said sharply, “Do you blame us?”

“No.” Sherlock pushed away from the table and stood. “This has been lovely.”

He strode back to Molly and slumped into his chair.

The dawn arrived as it always did, slowly and miraculously turning on the lights in the sky. Sherlock didn’t see the sunrise, but he calculated the passage of time and saw the change of staff.

“Dr. Jacobson will be here in a few minutes to disconnect the ventilator.” A new nurse appeared with an intern in tow.

Sherlock’s head swiveled to John, who had joined him in his vigil.

“Molly is doing well enough to be woken up. Normally the tube is removed before she completely wakes up,” the doctor explained.

“I knew that,” Sherlock muttered under his breath.

“It’s OK to forget things when you’re under stress.” John inclined his head toward the hall. “We need to leave while they do this.”

Reluctantly Sherlock stood and whispered in Molly’s ear, “I love you.”

The pair waited in the conference room. Mary and Greg were nowhere to be seen.

“She’s through the worst of it, I believe.” John reached for some unopened biscuits on the table

Sherlock noticed how his friend rubbed his bandaged arm without thinking. “I haven’t thanked you yet for saving her. Thank you.”

“She’s a remarkable woman to have done what she did yesterday.”

Molly was remarkable and brave. Sherlock knew he would be the worst type of fool to go back to drugs, even for a minute’s reprieve from his feelings. Not when he had Molly Hooper in his corner.

“You know . . . I love her,” Sherlock admitted quietly.

John said nothing for a minute, then he chortled. “Of course I know. Everyone knows. I do know it took a lot for you to tell me that.”

Sherlock’s Mediterranean blue eyes turned flinty. “Don’t patronize me.”

“I’m not. It’s just that when I met you, you were more robot than human. I just wish . . .”

“What?”

John rubbed his arm again. “That declaring your feelings was something you felt comfortable doing in front of others. Especially when we all know the truth anyway.”

The nurse peeked into the room. “The doctor is done now. You can come back. She’s coming around, but she’s going to be out of it for a while.”

Seeing Molly breathing on her own was an emotional release for Sherlock. For the first time since he arrived at the hospital, he believed she was going to be all right. Pulling the chair away from the bed, he climbed on top of it.

“Everyone, come in here! Come on—you lot at the nurses’ station, come in here!”

“Be quiet!” John exclaimed. “Get down from there!”

“Come in, everyone!” Sherlock continued as a crowd quickly gathered. At the sound of the commotion, Mary and Greg had come running, too.

“Sir, you have to get down!” someone exclaimed.

“Oh my God, is he high?” Lestrade asked.

“No, I’m not high, Gavin. I will never use drugs again,” Sherlock declared. “I want you all to know that I love this woman. I love Molly Hooper!”

“Really?” John looked at him incredulously. “Do you think you are Tom Cruise? You couldn’t do this without dramatics?”

At the sound of Sherlock’s voice, Molly’s eyes had snapped open. When he looked down at her, he was rewarded with a smile.

~s~s~s~s~s~

 

Anthea stayed in her boss’s office at his request. Rick Dodge was seated in the same chair he sat in last time, but now she had file on him. A thick file. Her nose twitched as she suppressed a grin. 

_Perhaps Mycroft is worried he’d kill the bloke outright if I weren’t present. Not that it would matter._

Her mobile had blown up since yesterday with updates and messages regarding Dodge, Rusk, Sherlock, and Dr. Hooper. Mycroft’s mood grew darker with each alert. Anthea knew Sherlock would focus blame on his older brother. Mycroft knew this, too. Standing behind his desk, he looked like a thundercloud.

“Mr. Dodge, I agreed to help you because Lord Ashton asked me. I knew Sherlock would find Ruby Danley. I didn’t see the harm in notifying you of when he did, provided it would lead to taking a major drug dealer off the streets. That was an error on my part that I deeply regret. You are a bungling, self-involved fool.” 

Dodge turned bright red. “Oi, you have no right—” 

“Your failure to properly secure your firearm resulted in the murder of Ruby Danley. But your manipulating Dr. Hooper, a civilian, into participating in a police sting is beyond the pale.” 

“We arrested him, didn’t we? Rusk. And we got Fitzsimmons, too,” Dodge said defensively.

“All thanks to the quick thinking of Dr. Hooper, not you!” Mycroft pounded his desk. “You did not capture the murderer known as Sid Vicious and you did not recover the money.”

Anthea gasped. This blundering oaf had done the impossible: He had ruffled her unflappable boss, not because of the case but because of the damage done to his relationship with Sherlock. 

Quickly regaining his composure, Mycroft started toward the door. “I’m leaving you in the capable hands of my PA. She knows what to do.”

Anthea tried to catch his eye as he walked out, but Mycroft Holmes stared straight ahead. She had never seen him so angry. Only she knew how dangerous he truly was in this state.

“Agent Dodge, you are to come with me,” she said.

“Where?” The agent was sweating profusely.

She smiled sweetly. “You are now entering a bureaucratic and legal black hole from which you won’t reappear.”

~s~s~s~s~s~

“As soon as you’re well enough, I’m going to leave you.”

Molly didn’t say anything but instead raised a tolerant eyebrow. John didn’t need to tell Sherlock that what he had said was “a bit not good.” He could feel his pulse hammering at his temples as he rephrased.

“The doctor has said—and John agrees—that you’re doing remarkably. You’re on your way to a full recovery. So, the sooner I go to rehab, the sooner I can return to you.”

Molly didn’t say anything. She didn’t have to. She simply outstretched her arms to him. That was what Sherlock had nearly lost.

“I love you,” he murmured and gently held her. There was a dizzying rush of joy—and something much deeper. Maybe feelings weren’t so bad after all.

“Can we have a visit now?” Mary and John entered with a cheery bouquet of daisies; Lestrade followed with Molly’s favorite chocolates.

“They’re lovely!” Molly exclaimed. Her cheeks had color in them now and she was able to walk up and down the hall with Sherlock’s help for longer periods of time.

As John and Mary talked with her, Lestrade pulled Sherlock aside. “When are you going to rehab?”

“When she is discharged.”

“She’ll be staying at John and Mary’s. They’ll take good care of her.”

“I know.”

“You’ve done it before—kicked drugs and started over. You can do it again.” Lestrade paused. “Take a lesson from Lot’s wife, yeah? Don’t look back.”

~s~s~s~s~s~

_Six months later_

It was a lazy Sunday afternoon, and Sherlock and Molly lay languidly in his bed. Two months earlier he had returned from rehab clean and sober. It had been two months of painful, tentative rebuilding and joyful reuniting with John, Mary, Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, and most importantly, Molly.

She had stood up for herself and gave voice to her hurt and pain. She laid before him the damage he had done and waited as he took responsibility for it. He apologized, and she told him her boundaries. And then she forgave him and took him to bed. The woman amazed him.

Molly pulled the bedspread up to her chin. Sherlock had never understood modesty in anyone but especially in Molly. Why would she feel it was necessary to cover up after he had seen every inch of her?

“Are you cold?” he asked.

She shook her head.

“Then why?” He tried to tease the bedspread downward, but she wasn’t having any of it.

“My scar. It isn’t the way I had hoped it would be.”

Alarmed, he yanked the blankets down with such force that Molly stood no chance in remaining covered. Sherlock put his face within inches of the purplish-red scar. It was puckered, but there was no sign of infection.

Molly squirmed under his intense stare. “I had hoped it would be smooth, but it won’t be.”

“It’s ridged. That’s how some scars are.” He looked at her quizzically.

“It’s embarrassing.” She blushed like she used to when they had first met.

“Why would you feel self-conscious about a perfectly normal healing process?” He returned to the head of the bed so he could be eye to eye with her.

“The skin will never lay right. I may not regain feeling around it. If I ever have children, my whole stomach will become lumpy and saggy.” She fidgeted with the blanket. “It’s embarrassing.”

Sherlock blinked. Molly Hooper was the most baffling woman he had ever met.

“Well, don’t feel that way,” he said simply.

He watched her face and knew that, once again, he had hit the wrong tone. He tried a different approach.

“Do you think _I_ care about how it looks?”

“A little,” she finally answered.

He was taken aback. “You’ve seen my scars.”

“That’s different,” she objected.

“How?”

“It just is.” Molly set her jaw.

Sherlock looked into her eyes. “Your scar is a beauty mark. It will always remind me that you were willing to lay down your life for me. And that will always be beautiful.”

He was relieved when she smiled. “I love you. I always will.”

“I love you. And I will never say those words to another woman.” He kissed her deeply, and her body rose to his.

Later, she rolled onto her side so that he could hold her from behind. “Why Mr. Holmes. I didn’t know you were such a romantic.”

He brushed his lips over her shoulder. “Don’t tell anyone.”

“It’s our secret.”

“When I was in rehab, I thought of you all the time, which was easy because all around were reminders of you. I would lay awake and try to recall what your body felt like beside me.” He pulled her closer. “Like this.”

“You once told me that the body is merely transport and that parts are parts.”

“Well, some parts are more appealing than others.” He ran his hands over her, sending her into a fit of giggles.

Rolling over to face him, Molly rested her hands on his chest. “Speaking of parts, I noticed you have put on nearly all the weight you lost.”

“Very observant of you, Dr. Hooper.” He kissed the tip of her nose. “I disciplined my mind to accept the fact that I had to eat regularly in rehab.”

“And group therapy? You’re really going to continue it?”

“It helps me stay clean.” Sherlock’s thoughts were obviously elsewhere.

Molly propped up against the headboard, no longer worried about the covers staying up. “What is it?”

“There’s something not right about this rehab,” he said. “There’s something going on there. I haven’t gathered enough data yet to determine what it is.”

“Do you mean you _feel_ something is wrong?” Molly teased.

Sherlock’s chuckle was deep and throaty. “I suppose John and you are having an effect on my methods.”

“You really think there is something that needs investigating?” Molly grew serious.

“I do. In fact, I plan on it being my next case.”

Molly looked worried. “And not Sid Vicious?”

Knowing the man who had shot her was still free made her uneasy. Sherlock had plans in the works to deal with the hired killer, but there was no need to burden her with them.

“I promise to keep you safe,” he said. “It’s important that you believe me. Do you?”

Wrapping a sheet around her, Molly slid out of bed. She extended her hands to him.

“Join me,” she said.

Sherlock smiled.

“I would love nothing more.”


End file.
